


Season's Eatings

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Co-Starring Best of Men and Wives Hannibal Lecter, Domestic Fluff, Drunkenness, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Featuring Pinterest Addict Will Graham, Feelings.gif, Fix-It, Food, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is a Mess, Hanukkah, I'm Giving Myself Cavities Writing This, Ice Skating, Innuendo, M/M, Misadventures in Ornament Construction, More Like Domestic Filth, Murder Husbands, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Non-Graphic Violence, Origami, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Practical Lessons in Norse Mythology, Rooftop Contemplation, Sephardic Judaism, The Author Has Serious Opinions About Elf On The Shelf, These Guys Are So Married, These two are ridiculous, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Will Loves Hannibal, Will is a Mess, Yes Will-ginia There is a Father Christmas, so much food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 19,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Hannibal and Will live in a happy little town brimming with love and acceptance and hardly a rude person, at all. Together, they've created a world for themselves full of domestic nonsense and an over-abundance of baked goods.That's it. That's the fic.***A series of sequential ficlets and drabbles written for #HanniHolidays.





	1. Day 1: Holiday Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Hannibalmas! Bryan bless us, everyone.
> 
> Unbetaed. This is all my fault.

Will opens the front door and is immediately overwhelmed by the smell of sugar cookies. For most people–normal people, people who didn’t live in a Gothic Revival home that was heavy on the gothic and not so much on the revival–this would be a wonderful welcome home. Unfortunately, when Will comes home from his volunteer shift at the no-kill shelter and the smell of baking is in the air, he freezes in abject terror. **  
**

Perhaps he would feel differently had Hannibal not spent the better part of seven months teaching himself how to construct and decorate remarkably intricate gingerbread houses. Instead, Will has flashbacks every time _The Great British Bake-Off_ comes on.

He toes off his shoes and hangs his scarf on its appointed peg on the wall. “Hannibal?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Yes,” says Will, grabbing the lint roller from the wall organizer. He tries to rid his pants of as much dog hair as possible. “I had gathered.”

Hannibal wanders into the foyer, loafers slipping quietly along the floor. Predictably, he’s in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, pants to match. Even the apron coordinates. Will tries not to smile, but he can’t help himself, especially when he sees a stray bit of flour underneath one of Hannibal’s eyes.

“Cookies already?’ Will asks, taking Hannibal’s hand and letting himself be dragged to the kitchen.

“There are only so many days left to perfect them,” explains Hannibal.

“I don’t see why you feel the need to show off for the garbage men and the mail carrier, that’s all.” The kitchen is, not surprisingly, spotless, though the counters are covered with cooling racks. “And just how many cookie baskets are you making, anyway?”

Hannibal moves around him, heading for the far end of the counter. “My icing technique needed work.”

“My waistline’s gonna need work at this rate.”

“Nonsense. Now,” and Hannibal heads back toward Will, plate of cooled and iced cookies in hand, “please, give me your honest opinion.”

Will blinks at the plate. “Are you sure about that?”

The plate drops down a few inches, and Hannibal sighs. “You have yet to taste them.”

“Hannibal,” says Will, laughing a little, “you can’t leave organ-shaped cookies out for the neighborhood’s civil servants.”

Undeterred, Hannibal selects an extremely festive small intestine and holds it up to Will’s mouth expectantly. “What about the choir director?” he asks as Will chews, then swallows.

“Yeah,” he replies. He watches Hannibal’s eyes track the tip of his tongue as he licks a crumb off of his bottom lip. “I think that’s entirely deserved, though I don’t think it’ll make him any more likely to let you play harpsichord during the Christmas program, this year or next.”


	2. Day 2: Ornament

Church is dangerous, Will’s decided. It had been a good idea of Hannibal’s, to integrate themselves into the community by becoming heavily involved with St. Andrew’s Anglican. Will can’t even deny that he’s enjoyed infiltrating the congregation, though it meant socializing. He’s even joined a committee. Besides, church keeps Hannibal occupied and gives him an acceptable social life, which means less elitist conspicuous activity, which means no Jack. **  
**

Even better, the little old ladies of the decoration committee are fond of good coffee, better pastries, and morning mimosas. They dote on him, too, the lone male of the species among them, perfectly content to let him hold the ladder or fetch boxes or lift all the heavy things. His shoulder hates it, but they’re adorable, so he doesn’t especially care.

They had been suspicious of him for exactly five minutes. “I’m here to learn,” Will had said. “My idea of decorating is tackle boxes and ceramic dog figurines.” After that, the decoration committee had happily welcomed him into the fold, declaring that he reminded them of their husbands, and how wonderful it would’ve been if their menfolk had been so interested in learning, and then Will had spent meetings smiling and nodding and tuning them out.

Mostly, anyway.

If Eunice’s granddaughter hadn’t bought her a smartphone, Will wouldn’t have had to help her set it up, or add apps to it, or shown her how to navigate said apps, and then Will would have never become addicted to Pinterest. When Molly had tried to show it to him, Will had shrugged it off. Maybe he’s just a better husband now.

However and _why_ ever it happened, Will’s dedicated too much of his free time to pinning things. Hannibal glances over in the evening and smiles smugly as they sit in bed next to each other, glued to different sections of Pinterest before they go to bed. It’s the 21st century equivalent of reading next to each other, Will supposes, though they do that, as well.

Will usually looks at fishing lures, or spends time planning camping trips that Hannibal will ultimately refuse to go on, or compulsively scrolls through the disaster preparedness boards in case they have to move off the grid. But the committee spent the afternoon decorating the sanctuary for Christmas, and now Will can’t stop thinking of their own tree. It’s a Nordmann fir, surprisingly soft and wonderfully symmetrical.

“Doesn’t smell like a Christmas tree,” Will had muttered as they tied it to the top of the car.

“Plastic is hardly a holiday scent.”

“Fake trees worked well enough for me and Dad.”

Hannibal had sighed on the other side of the car. “And my family preferred the Serbian spruce, but I believe we should devote ourselves to forming our _own_ traditions.”

Will still can’t come up with a good argument for that, but now he’s perusing through Lithuanian Christmas trees on Pinterest, and Will wonders if maybe they shouldn’t throw out all of the old to bring in the new. He never saw the traditional geometric himmeli hung on Hannibal’s tree in Baltimore, but they’re strangely appealing to him. Simple, but striking, a marriage of his and Hannibal’s own differing tastes.

He pins a few do-it-yourself tutorials, and then spends the rest of the night trying to figure out where to find straw that doesn’t come from a broom. Maybe Eunice will know.


	3. Day 3: Fireplace

“Do you remember our first Christmas?” Will asks from the other side of the sofa, finger idly tracing along Hannibal’s socked foot. **  
**

Hannibal looks at him over the top of his reading glasses. “If you could be more specific.”

“It isn’t as if we’ve had more than one first Christmas, Hannibal.”

“On the contrary,” says Hannibal, using his thumb as a bookmark, folding his arms. “There was the time you fell asleep in your dinner–”

“My brain was literally in the process of melting out of my ears. I don’t even remember _being_ at dinner.” Will furrows his brow. “I’m not even sure I was, to be completely frank.”

But Hannibal carries on, ignoring him. “The next Christmas was when I visited you at the hospital.”

Will sighs. “That doesn’t count, either. Mostly because you were the reason I was there and I refused to talk to you.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, “you were quite rude.”

“Fine,” concedes Will, prodding Hannibal’s chest with one of his big toes. “Our _third_ first Christmas.”

“Of course I remember it, Will. Senility has yet to set in.”

Will chuckles darkly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll kill you long before you lose yourself,” and Hannibal’s heart warms. He sets down his book entirely and takes up one of Will’s feet from his lap, instead. “I just heard the wood pop and it reminded me, that’s all.”

“What of?” But Will shakes his head and doesn’t say. They sit there in a silence as warm as the fire, rubbing each other’s feet. Hannibal glances up once or twice to watch shadows play across Will’s face. It’s dark in the room, save for the fire’s glow; Hannibal should have gotten up to get an oil lamp several chapters ago.

“Did you think we’d end up here, like this?” Will eventually asks.

“How so?”

“Filthily domestic,” explains Will. The firelight paints his teeth gold. “A couple of old retired lovebirds playing house.”

“We are still very much wanted men.”

Will shrugs half-heartedly. “So we’re more exciting than the rest of our neighbors.” He taps the sides of Hannibal’s feet together. “Still. Did you?”

Hannibal closes his eyes, thinking of Florence at Christmastime: the Piazza del Duomo, bustling with activity following the lighting of the tree on L'Immacolata Concezione; the lifesize terracotta nativity beside Santa Maria del Fiore; the holiday markets of Santa Croce and Santissima Annunziata. He has taken the three of them–he and Will and Abigail–to Florence every December for years now, a swirling snow globe of a room in his mind palace.

“I snapped at you for making the fire too large,” Hannibal says, created memories triggering real ones. “I don’t recall why, exactly. Something feverish about attracting jackflies.”

“Do you remember what I said?”

“‘This could very well be our first and last Christmas together, Hannibal, shut the fuck up,’” and Will laughs loud and clear–it never fails to amuse him, hearing Hannibal curse. Hannibal’s feet follow the rise and fall of Will’s belly, and that amuses him, in turn. “And then we inexplicably survived the night, less frozen than anticipated, and I told you that you were never allowed to build a fire again.”

“In my defense,” Will says, and Hannibal can hear the way his grin shapes the words as they come out of his mouth, warm and full and sweet, “I’ve never had a great track record with fireplaces.”

Hannibal opens his eyes. Will’s skin is flushed from laughter, face framed by the vee created by Hannibal’s feet, Will’s chin to his heels. There’s a crumb of something in his beard, which means he’s snuck a post-dinner snack. Likely one of the frosted kidneys.

“I never pictured us precisely this way, no,” he tells Will. “But I like this better.”


	4. Day 4: Snowball

Of all the rooms in their home, Hannibal had only been interested in remodeling two. The kitchen, Will had expected. Anticipated, even. Hannibal having anything less than a top-of-the-line kitchen was anathema to both of them, though they’d certainly made do with cruder appliances along the way. **  
**

Will had not, however, expected Hannibal to have so many opinions about the bathroom.

“Facilities at the hospital were…limited,” Hannibal told him, and Will had snorted in reply.

“Understatement of the century.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, Will, was your toilet ever taken away from you?”

“No,” said Will, a little confused. “Was yours?”

“Two words, if I may,” and Hannibal cleared his throat. “Dignity pants.”

And that had solved the issue of who would renovate the bathroom.

The results were nothing short of glorious. A white marble trough sink; a free-standing bathtub that Hannibal had literally knocked a wall down to have room to install; some ridiculous wall-mounted toilet that Will still wasn’t sure how he’d inevitably have to fix. Best of all was the curbless shower with its absurd three shower heads, one waterfall and two handheld. It made cleaning up after hunts simple, and Will suspects that it was Hannibal’s silent invitation for Will to make as much of a bloody mess as he liked.

There was, unfortunately, no expectation of privacy. Hannibal always wound up sticking his head in for some reason or another. But Will had grown used to it–the interruptions, at least.

Will’s been in the shower an entire three minutes when Hannibal pops his head around the door and asks, “How do you feel about nuts?”

He licks his lips and reaches for the shampoo, some stupid, prissy, expensive shit Hannibal insisted on. “Is that a trick question?”

“No.”

“Well.” Will frowns at the large amount of shampoo in his palm. Far more than he’d intended to get. “I mean, I thought you’d know how I feel about nuts by now.”

“We’ve never really discussed them.”

Will chuckles as he works up a lather. “I’d say we’ve done more than discussed them.”

The door closes; Will doesn’t even need to turn to know that Hannibal’s folded his arms over his chest. “Don’t prevaricate. Do you or do you not have a preference?”

“I’ve only ever had the one.”

“Which one?”

“Oh my _God,_ Hannibal, _yours.”_

Likewise, Will doesn’t need to pause his shampooing and open his eyes to know that Hannibal is scowling with his eyes. “To my knowledge, I have never fed you nuts.”

“Then what did we do last night?”

Hannibal finally catches on. “I despise you.”

“I hate you more,” says Will, smiling.

“You should know, darling,” begins Hannibal, “that I fully intend to kill you with a venous air embolism while you sleep.”

“Not if I smother you with a pillow first.” Will sighs in pleasure as Hannibal replaces Will’s hands with his own, massaging his scalp.

“That would be terribly short-sighted of you. Smothering is too easy to detect. Very difficult to pass off as death by natural causes.” It used to bother Will, how affectionately and easily they spoke of killing each other–not necessarily that they were talking about it, but that he never knew if Hannibal was pulling his leg or entirely serious. When Will realized that he wasn’t sure of his own motives, either, the game became playful rather than threatening.

“So why are you asking me about nuts?”

“I decided to make snowballs.”

_“More_ cookies?”

Hannibal reaches around Will for one of the handheld shower heads. “I thought they would go well with your eggnog after dinner.”

“What are my options?”

“Pecans, walnuts, or hazelnuts.”

Will makes a show of thinking it over, _hmm_ ing and tapping the corner of his mouth with one finger. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “Surprise me.”

“Don’t I always?” and Hannibal sounds as fond as he does threatening, which isn’t a surprise, at all.


	5. Day 5: Eggnog

If Will had told him that he’d be reduced to lying in the floor, a drunken and merry mess, Hannibal would never have agreed to drink the eggnog. Really, he should’ve known better than to partake of any concoction of Will’s, especially after the mimosa incident, of which they never speak. **  
**

Nevertheless, Hannibal _did_ drink, and the two of them are now, in fact, very drunk.

“This percolated for three whole months, Hannibal,” and Will smiles proudly, looking at the empty mason jar with a strange sort of awe. “And you said Alton Brown was an insuffi–” His face screws up as he tries to remember how letters work. “Insuffa–no, encepha– _pffft,_ oh fuck, _definitely_ not that.”

Hannibal clears his throat. It makes his tonsils feel out of balance with the rest of the furniture. “I called him an insufferable and pretentious culinary imposter.”

“Have you looked in the mirror recently, mon chéri?” Hannibal knows he should be irritated with Will for picking on him, but Will bullies so beautifully that he simply can’t be bothered to try.

As for the fact that Will’s choice of pet name this evening makes Hannibal feel weak and melted inside, as soft as an overripe melon? That has absolutely _nothing_ to do with it. 

“I believe myself far more attractive than Mr. Brown,” Hannibal mutters. Against his better judgment, he reaches for both his glass mug and the second jar of eggnog.

Will laughs, and that’s beautiful, too. “You’re so vain,” he says, and waggles his own empty mug at Hannibal. “How about one for the road?”

Opening the fresh jar is an experience in itself–the smell of alcohol alone is enough to knock a sober man to immediate inebriation. “I never asked what was in this.”

“I know. At long last, a man who trusts me.”

Hannibal glances at him pointedly. “I will never trust you, darling boy.”

“And here I thought you’d finally lost your noggin.” Will stretches his arm up and sets his mug on the coffee table above him; glass meets glass with a tooth-jarring _clink._ “It’s bourbon, cognac, and rum. A real multicultural affa–shit, help me sit up. The floor’s being hateful.”

“I find myself otherwise engaged,” Hannibal tells him. “Also comfortable.”

“Of course you are, lying on your tummy pudge like a pillow.” More affectionate bullying, but Will has shown on numerous occasions how much he enjoys Hannibal’s body. Hannibal can let Will keep all his essential organs a little while longer.

“I could do without your feet so close to my face.”

Will misses twice, but finally manages to poke Hannibal’s nose with his foot. “Liar.”

It’s poor retaliation, but Hannibal snatches the side of Will’s arch between his teeth, smiling more than he means to, and Will yelps. Hannibal keeps worrying his foot back and forth, and perhaps _–perhaps–_ he growled a little. Will, propped up on his elbows, is wheezing himself into a gorgeous blush.

“C’mere,” he manages between drunken, sniffling, red-nosed chuckles. It’s unnecessary, of course–Hannibal’s already stalking up the length of his body. “You ever made out in front of a fire drunk as a skunk?”

Hannibal licks his lips as he presses Will down on the rug, forearms caging in his head. “I believe I’m about to.”

Will whispers, “Damn right you are,” and the rest of the eggnog goes to waste.


	6. Day 6: Holiday Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [DrJLecter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJLecter/pseuds/DrJLecter/works) for brainstorming with me. <3

“No.” The axe falls with a heavy, dull, pleasing _thonk,_ perfect punctuation. “Absolutely not.” **  
**

“I fail to see what your issue is,” Hannibal says behind him. Will can picture Hannibal easily without looking–arms crossed over his peacoat; the tip of his nose rosy from the cold wind; the ridiculous furry ear flaps of his hat frosted with the light dusting of snow.

“My issue–-” _Thonk._ “Is that you–-” _Thonk._ “Inexplicably want-–” Will pants, breath pooling into the air. His shoulder isn’t what it used to be. “A little help here, Hannibal?”

“You seem to have the situation under control.”

Will props the head of the axe on the frozen ground and leans on the handle like a cane. “When have I ever had a situation under control with regards to you?” he asks, turning to look at Hannibal.

“You did an excellent job of rescuing me, if memory serves.” His teeth glint in the moonlight.

“With more than a little help from Molly.”

“Charming woman.” A pause. “I keep meaning to ring her.”

Will rolls his eyes and returns to his work. “The FBI’s still watching her house. She had to use Chiyoh’s burner phone last time she called.”

“Perhaps a card–”

 _Thonk._ “Cards are what–-” _Thonk._ “Got us here.”

“And here I thought it was a long fall into a cold drink.”

Will closes his eyes and pauses mid-swing. He lets the handle drop to his shoulder, then immediately regrets it. “I meant _here_ here. Here _now.”_

Hannibal’s pouts may not be visible to the naked eye, but they’re certainly audible. “You were the one who decided to chop a man up in the middle of the night.”

“He talked you into–-” Will grunts, or maybe growls, or maybe some odd fusion of the two. The axe falls _–thonk–_ spraying warm blood onto new snow. “Buying Christmas cards.” _Thonk._

“I have choir practice in the morning,” Hannibal continues. “I refuse to miss rehearsal due to your unpredictable vendettas.”

 _Thonk._ “You want to send a Christmas card to Jack!”

“‘Tis the season.” He pauses. “I had thought to enclose a holiday letter, as well.”

“Oh my God, you are such a soccer mom.” _Thonk._

“Perhaps a letter from Santa for young Morgan.”

Will kicks half of the overly-enthusiastic salesman’s torso across the snow. “Just shut up and help me bag these.”

“How many drop sites?”

“Ten.”

Plastic rustles behind him as Hannibal begins separating individual garbage bags from the roll. “You owe me pancakes,” he mutters.

“That little diner?” asks Will, wiping his brow with the back of a gloved hand. “The one with the questionable restroom?”

“The same.”

“Fine,” Will agrees, “but no Christmas cards.” He looks over his shoulder, meeting Hannibal’s smile with his own.

“To what cards are you referring?” Hannibal tries to wink, and fails, as always, but Will doesn’t point it out.


	7. Day 7: Eskimo Kisses

For Hannibal, watching Will interact with children was as much of an unparalleled delight as it was exquisitely painful. Children loved Will and his endearing awkwardness around them, his willingness to answer any and all questions thrown his way. He was as inquisitive as they were, and they knew it. A strange sort of shared empathy, Hannibal supposes. **  
**

He’d spoken of it to Molly, asked her how Will had been with Walter. “Wonderful,” she’d said. “Until he went back to you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I knew what I was getting into when we married. I knew he was taken, even if he didn’t. Even so, I thought it would be good for Wally, you know, to have a father for as long as possible. We just had to give him up sooner than I expected.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Hannibal said, and he was.

“I’m sorry for Will’s,” she’d replied, and Hannibal was sorry for that, too.

Regret is a strange emotion for him. It leaves a hollow place in his chest, shaped like Abigail, shaped like Mischa. Seeing Will with the children at St. Andrew’s is bittersweet, but Hannibal would never deny Will a third–no, _fourth_ chance at paternity.

Today, he watches Will with the littlest ones, glue stuck to his fingers and glitter in his beard as he tries and fails to direct ornament making for the Christmas tree in the sanctuary. Ginny, his freckled favorite, precocious at three, sits on his knee. She keeps grabbing his face with her little hands to rub their noses together.

“You have an admirer,” Hannibal told Will once over Sunday lunch.

“She’s going to rub the skin off of my nose one of these days,” Will said, smiling. “Eskimo kisses aren’t supposed to injure.”

“You could stop her,” suggested Hannibal, but Will only shook his head.

Now, another child, a boy about the same age that Hannibal doesn’t know, clambers up onto Will’s other leg. He leans his head over in front of Will’s face, and rubs their noses together. Will laughs, and it’s better music than any piece Hannibal could ever compose.

Hannibal can’t give Will his pack back. He can’t give him his children back. But he can give Will this. Maybe this is enough.


	8. Day 8: Christmas Lights

Will is getting used to coming home to the smell of cookies. He’s also resigned himself to putting on the freshman fifteen he managed to avoid in college. If Hannibal’s baking was less delicious, Will might find it in his heart to complain about it. Instead, he just sighs and nibbles more than he’d like to admit. **  
**

“You’re getting repetitive,” Will calls out as he starts rolling all of the dog hair off of his clothes. “This is the third time you’ve made sugar cookies this week.”

“The simplest recipes are the ones in most need of perfection.”

Will shakes his head, then gives up getting the hair off of his jeans, opting to just take them off. He hangs them by a belt loop on the peg next to his scarf. “I’m not leaving my pants on the floor,” he tells Hannibal, making his way to the kitchen, “just so you know.”

“I appreciate your cooperation,” Hannibal says. He’s holding a paintbrush in one hand and an already-frosted cookie in the other. Smirking, he adds, “Also your enthusiasm.”

“You already told me I’m not allowed to drag you to bed until after dinner.” Will winds his arms around Hannibal’s waist. Raising himself onto the balls of his feet, he hooks his chin over Hannibal’s shoulder. “Christmas light cookies?”

“I thought it appropriate.” Hannibal tilts his head slightly to the right, and Will accepts the invitation, kissing along his neck. “These are from yesterday’s batch.”

“So what’s in the oven?” Will asks, lips against Hannibal’s jaw.

“Sweater-shaped cookies for the party on Saturday.”

“Gotcha.” He tightens his embrace, moving with Hannibal as he reaches for a shaker. “Oh my God,” says Will, watching him turn it up over the cookie in his hand. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You’re using sprinkles!”

Hannibal grumbles, “This is sanding sugar.” He shakes the excess sugar off, then puts down the cookie, a precisely-iced blue bulb with a piped gold base that would humble Martha Stewart. “It adds dimension and realism.”

“Okay,” Will says, grinning, “but you’re sprinkling it.”

“I am _applying it liberally.”_

And Will can’t help it, can’t stop himself. He buries his face in between Hannibal’s shoulder blades and laughs. “There’s a serial killer in my kitchen, and he’s making cookies with sprinkles.”

He can hear Hannibal’s invisible pout. “These aren’t sprinkles,” he insists.

“I can’t decide if this you’re ridiculous or adorable.”

“Neither.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Will says, patting Hannibal’s stomach as if consoling him. “Of course not.”

Hannibal dips his paintbrush before applying the solution to the next cookie. “To think I was making these to keep us company while we hang the lights outside.”

Will groans. “I thought we’d decided not to.”

“We had,” Hannibal confirms, “but the Robertsons put up theirs and–”

“You’re jealous.”

The shaker is forcefully set down on the counter. “I thought it looked lovely. And festive.”

“And you want to keep up with the Joneses.” Hannibal puts down the red cookie. Its absolutely-not-sprinkles shimmer in the light. “Those are beautiful, though,” he says, “so I’ll forgive you.”

“How very magnanimous.”

“You know,” begins Will, “we decorated with lights today at the shelter, too.”

Hannibal selects a green cookie. “Those words were ordered very carefully.”

“Well we were taking photos for the website, and I was looking for decorating ideas, and then I saw this photo on Pinterest–”

“Oh, no.”

“–where someone wrapped lights around their dog–”

_“No.”_

“–and I thought to myself, ‘What a wonderful family photo that would make, me and Hannibal and our shelter rescue.’”

Hannibal carefully turns around in Will’s embrace. “We cannot have a dog, Will,” he reminds him, voice soft. “Should we need to pick up and move quickly, we would have to leave it behind.”

“I know,” says Will, “I know. But a boy can dream, right?”

“Of course he can,” and Hannibal’s voice drips with sugar and sweetness as Will’s had earlier. “Of course.”


	9. Day 9: Sledding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all leave the nicest comments. Thank you for your lovely words! <3

It isn’t particularly unusual for Will to ask unexpected questions in the afterglow. Hannibal hasn’t figured out exactly why Will is prone to doing so. Currently, he’s simply chalked it up to Will’s empathy disorder, that his synapses fire at random after orgasm, pulling queries from the depths of his subconscious. **  
**

They’re wrapped up in each other now, Will’s body pressed up against Hannibal’s side, his hand resting on Hannibal’s stomach. Will has developed a sort of fascination with it. Typically, he reaches for the scar from the Dragon’s fire, a whorled knot born from fast sutures and burning infection and little time to recover.

Then again, Hannibal can’t deny his own love of Will’s belly; even now, Hannibal’s hand rests between their bodies, knuckles caressing the mark he left. He’s pleased to feel how much more plush Will’s stomach is, too. Will had grown too thin on the run, neglecting himself in favor of caring for Hannibal. Now, it’s Hannibal’s turn to care for Will.

Sometimes, that means larger portions. Right now, it means fielding strange questions.

“Did you ever play in the snow when you were a kid?” asks Will. His beard tickles Hannibal’s skin as he speaks.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” which Hannibal knew already, because Will never does. “I try to picture you as a child and I just see you now, only shorter. An austere, calculating, deadly tot.” Will shifts under the blanket as their skin grows tacky. “Like one of the twins from _The Shining.”_

“Are you the psychic child, then?”

Will laughs quietly. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Hannibal thinks for a moment. “I used to take Mischa sledding,” he tells Will, and they both squeeze each other a little more tightly. “I wasn’t especially fond of it myself; I disliked the lack of control.”

“Of course you did.”

“But she liked sitting on the sled and letting me drag her along behind me,” Hannibal continues. “And I liked that, as well, so we did so as often as was possible.”

Will stretches his neck enough to press his lips to Hannibal’s chin. “I’m glad you have good memories of her.”

“As am I.”

“The kids are going sledding Saturday afternoon,” says Will. “Maybe you want to help us chaperone?”

Hannibal sighs. “I am not fond of children, Will. You know this.”

“Yeah, I know.” He nuzzles against Hannibal’s chest, smiling. “But you _are_ apparently fond of pulling them around on sleds.”


	10. Day 10: Holiday Sweaters

Hannibal made entirely too many sweater-shaped cookies for the party, but the time it takes to ice them is a more than welcome distraction. He’s picked a number of designs–stripes that require feathering with a toothpick to create the illusion of knit fabric; snowmen that are decorated with a special edible ink; a particularly delicate design that Hannibal drew himself, cut into a stencil, and applied to the cookie with a paintbrush. The last technique is one Hannibal is most proud of. **  
**

These edible sweaters aren’t ugly in the slightest. Hardly fit for the party Hannibal is dreading.

Will, surprisingly enough, is actually looking forward to it. He’s been popping in and out of the kitchen for the last hour asking if his sweater is ugly enough. Only Eunice, Will’s elderly friend, knows how many Oxfam shops she took him to in search of proper attire. Hannibal has tried his best to look suitably interested, though he’d prefer to concentrate solely on the cookies. Baked goods are safe, unlike tacky clothes.

“What about this one?” asks Will.

Hannibal glances over, and his hand nearly slips while piping a hemline. Will is wearing an oversize blue sweatshirt, which would be, Hannibal thinks, adorable were it not for the Snoopy applique, complete with snow-covered doghouse. There are even actual working Christmas lights.

“It’s hideous.”

“You said that about the last one.”

“It, too, was hideous.”

Will rolls his eyes. “On a scale from one to Chilton.”

Hannibal beseeches the god of baked goods to deliver him from ugly sweater parties. “It might be improved by making Frederick put it on.”

“You’re a mean one, Doctor Grinch.” While Hannibal is concentrating on giving a face to a snowman, Will steals a cookie. “What are you wearing, anyway?”

“The crimson turtleneck you like so well.”

“Because you look great in it,” says Will. He pauses, then adds, “That isn’t ugly, at all. The whole point of this party is to look as awkward as possible.”

“No wonder you’re so eager to go,” mumbles Hannibal.

“Do we have milk?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

“Can you get me a glass?” Will asks around his bite of cookie as he leaves the kitchen. Hannibal grumbles his way to the cabinet, then growls his way to the refrigerator, then plots homicide as he pours the milk.

He’s just returned to icing when Will walks in with a present from under the tree. “We agreed not to open anything until it was proper,” Hannibal reminds him.

Will smiles. “Humor me.” He prods Hannibal’s arm with the box. The piped lace collar of the sweater is slightly lopsided.

“If I must.” The gift is wrapped in a gold and silver plaid paper, which Hannibal finds quite tasteful. As for the bow, Will reaches over and plucks it off, then sticks it to the top of Hannibal’s head. Hannibal does his best to ignore it while he carefully removes the wrapping paper, sets it aside, then opens the box.

Inside is a handsome forest green sweater. It seems to be handmade, softer than a machine-knit garment would be. The pattern isn’t garish, consisting mostly of small red dots in alternating rows. At the bottom of the sweater is a traditional Fair Isle pattern in cream, red, and gray. Best of all, however, is the large knitwork stripe across the chest and shoulders.

“Skulls,” Hannibal muses, and they are, painstakingly knit between snowflakes. Each looks to the left, chins uplifted, jaws wide with joy.

“It’s not an ugly sweater,” explains Will, “but you can wear it to the party without freaking out parishioners.”

“This is beautiful, Will.” He keeps touching the sweater. “What a strange, thoughtful gift.”

Will rubs his back. “I knew you were going to be intolerable about going,” he says. “And you can wear it the rest of the season, too. People will just assume it grew on you and smile. Little do they know.”

Hannibal clutches the box to his chest with one hand, pulling Will into a kiss with the other. They arrive to the fashionless party fashionably late.


	11. Day 11: Gingerbread House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was immensely fun to write. :D

Will wakes up in bed alone, and is immediately suspicious. Since they began sharing a bed, Will’s become accustomed to waking up the same way he goes to sleep–face turned toward Hannibal, watching him read. It’s one of the many constants in their life now, a way in which they stay settled. Routines provide comfort in a world that could turn upside down at any moment. **  
**

Whenever Hannibal isn’t there when Will opens his eyes, then, it’s safe to assume that he’s up to no good.

He won’t be out hunting, because Hannibal knows better than to hunt without Will. Then again, Hannibal seemed to enjoy being caught blood-red-handed, so perhaps Will ought not to eliminate that from the list. It’s Sunday, which means the church service at St. Andrews, preceded by choir rehearsal. Seeing as it’s–-Will rolls over and blinks at the Big Ben on the nightstand-–four o’clock in the morning, he knows Hannibal hasn’t left without him.

Surely Hannibal isn’t downstairs making breakfast. They only have toast and juice and coffee before church as there’s a fantastic sit-down brunch afterward and–-

_Oh God no._ Will smells gingerbread.

He takes the stairs two at a time as he runs down to the kitchen. Hannibal promised to never make gingerbread again. Promised. Hannibal isn’t supposed to break his promises. He’d promised not to do that, too.

But no, that is definitely gingerbread that Will smells.

Will slides into the kitchen and narrowly avoids crashing into the counter. “Hannibal.”

“Good morning, Will,” he says, not looking away from the pan, though he does acknowledge him with the spatula. “There’s coffee and cream on the counter.”

_“Gingerbread,”_ Will replies, because he’s apparently been reduced to one-word sentences.

“Ah. Yes.” And Hannibal does look over at him now. His eyes are bright with mischief. “I haven’t made any.”

“My nose doesn’t lie to me, even when you do.”

Hannibal glares at him. “I never break my promises.” Will glares back, and Hannibal says, “Though I may have slightly skirted the rules.” He flicks his wrist and the pan; the pancake he’s working on flips over.

“Gingerbread pancakes?”

“Martha’s recipe from the church cookbook,” he explains. “If we are to remain here, I must learn to lower my culinary expectations considerably.”

Will snorts and turns to his coffee. “Gonna guess that the cream tastes like gingerbread, too,” he says, lifting the tiny glass pitcher.

“As does the whipped butter for the pancakes. I regret that I could not flavor the syrup.”

“So you made an entire meal out of gingerbread without making–” Will takes a second glance at his coffee. “Hannibal?”

“Yes?”

“That looks remarkably like a miniature gingerbread house hanging over the rim of my coffee cup.”

Hannibal smirks as he slides the pancake from the pan and onto a plate. “That would be because it _is_ a miniature gingerbread house hanging over the rim of your coffee cup.”

“But you said-–”

“I did not bake the gingerbread, though it pained me to purchase it.” He sets the plate in front of Will. There’s a pastry bag in his hand, and the dollop of butter he applies to the stack of pancakes looks more like it belongs on a dessert. “However, I did _construct_ the houses.”

Will holds up his cup to have a better look. “Do I even want to know what size icing tip you used to decorate these?”

“Would you understand what I said if I did?”

“Definitely not.” Will sits on the bar stool in front of his breakfast. Subterfuge aside, he’s sure it will be delicious. “Thank you for making pancakes.”

Hannibal grins, and it’s so seldom that his smile paints his face that Will almost forgives him. Almost. “Of course.”

“Oh, before I forget.” Hannibal makes a noncommittal noise as he pours more batter into the hot pan. “Breakfast first; reckoning later.”

Hannibal looks over at him, obviously delighted. “I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S SO DOMESTIC IT HURTS SAVE ME FROM FLUFF


	12. Day 12: Elf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pulls out a soapbox for Will]

“Are you seriously going to dress up as Santa for the church kids?” **  
**

Hannibal looks over at Will, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, square-rimmed glasses fogging with his breath in the cold air. “St. Nicholas,” he says, “and I have yet to decide. The vicar did seem rather adamant, however.”

“Okay, well, I have two problems with that.”

“Being?” He reaches over and pulls Will’s toboggan cap back into place.

“First, and most obvious, you hate children.” Will pulls a gloved hand out of its pocket long enough to hook their arms together, then puts it back. Their shoulders touch, and Will leans in slightly, as if they’re conspiring. “Second, you’d be supporting one of the most pernicious lies of the modern world.”

It isn’t exactly unusual for them to have pseudo-intellectual conversation on the walk home from St. Andrews, but this is a first for Will, initiating the discussion. “Oh?”

“Santa Claus,” Will begins, “is nothing more than a tool used by parents to keep their children in line. The whole scheme is a capitalist, commercial crutch used to sell toys to kids who have too many already. But the _worst_ part is that it teaches children they can’t trust anything they hear.”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth turns up with glee. This was going to be excellent. “Is that not a good lesson to learn early in life? That the world seeks to trick them?”

Will sighs. “Maybe. I don’t know; the whole thing just sits with me wrong. Never mind the fact that kids who are in on it are told not to spoil it for other kids. No wonder we wind up with conspiracy theorists on YouTube.”

“A valid conspiracy theory in and of itself.”

But Will remains undeterred. “Not to mention all of the poor kids whose parents can’t afford to pay Santa, or the children whose families don’t celebrate Christmas that have to put up with all the nonsense at school. Not to sound trite,” he says, “but it simply isn’t fair.”

Hannibal _hmms._ “Is that not also a good lesson?” he asks. “To learn that life is unfair and, quite often, unkind?”

“At eight years old?”

“A person’s age should have no bearing on their right to the truth.”

“Which is exactly my point,” says Will. “No one likes to know that they’re being spied on, or coerced into a certain form of behavior. We’re gaslighting kids straight out of the cradle, and it’s morally reprehensible.” He pauses, licking his lips. “Have you ever heard of the Elf on the Shelf?”

Hannibal has, of course. “No, I have not.”

“It’s this doll that parents put out at the holidays. They legitimately tell their children that the elf is there to watch them and report back to Santa, like Christmas is some kind of goddamn police state.” He grimaces, and makes the most endearing noise of utter disgust. “I saw it on Pinterest. Moms go crazy coming up with things for that damn elf to do. It’s like a–like a–”

“Status symbol?”

“Yes. Whoever has the most clever or outrageous or supposedly hilarious idea gets shared and repinned and it’s not really for the kids, at all. Not to mention it’s creepy as fuck.”

Hannibal looks over at Will. His cheeks are rosy from all of the bluster. “You seem to have formed a strong opinion regarding the whole affair.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” Will says. “Been a slow week at the shelter.”

“Your diatribe has been very helpful,” Hannibal tells him. “Absolutely essential in my reaching a decision.”

“…You’re going to tell him yes, aren’t you?”

Hannibal smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't already guessed, I'm trying to figure out whether or not to have Santa visit this year. Tradition is hard to break with, yo.


	13. Day 13: Holiday Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out crack, then developed feelings. Oops?

There is only one thing in the world that Will hates more than Hannibal, and that thing is shopping. Considering he also loves and lives with Hannibal, putting him in the precarious position of plotting his death while never carrying through with it, Will is obligated to buy him a gift for Christmas. Since this requires shopping, there was only one way this trip was going to end.

The sales clerk is unfortunate collateral damage, but, in Will’s defense, she had sold the last red scarf. Furthermore, she was much easier to track down and teach a lethal lesson than the customer, which was also unfortunate. This also meant that Will had broken the cardinal rule of his and Hannibal’s relationship: to never, under any circumstances beyond self-preservation, kill alone. This, too, was unfortunate.

So, regrettably, shopping is moved to the first spot on Will’s list of hate.

As he stands looking down at the mutilated body of the salesperson, blood caked beneath his nails and crusted on his bare arms--and when had  _ that _ happened?--Will tries to figure out a way to explain this to Hannibal.

What he comes up with is, “I’m sorry I missed dinner,” and,”I brought home a midnight snack.”

The harpsichord stops. Will can’t hear Hannibal’s steps, but he knows he’s on his way. Sure enough, Hannibal emerges from the sitting room, already in his favorite pajama pants. His hair looks surprisingly disheveled, and he’s wrapped up in the throw blanket from the couch that Will had insisted belonged there.

“Make it dinner, instead,” says Hannibal. “I have yet to fix anything.”

Will sets down his coolers. “Are you alright?”

“I feel terrible,” Hannibal tells him.

“Are you sick?”

“Not physically.”

“Mentally?”

“I…” Hannibal sighs, and the blanket slumps with his shoulders. “I am distraught.”

Will moves toward him, embraces him; Hannibal stoops slightly to rest his head against Will’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I drove out to the city this morning,” he begins, “looking for a present for you. There was a very rude salesman. I followed him home once his shift ended and I killed him.”

Will laughs a little. “Well seeing as I managed to break our rule for similar reasons--”

“No, it isn’t about that.” Hannibal pulls back, and Will hasn’t seen him look like this since they gutted each other in Hannibal’s kitchen. “I--we risked our life here today. Our lives  _ here, _ in this house, in this town. And I realized that I  _ like _ it here, and I’m  _ happy _ here, and I don’t want to leave.”

His eyes are watering, and Will feels helpless, because, “I feel like that, too.”

“This is our home. This is  _ ours, _ together.”

“Then let’s go sit in our kitchen,” says Will. “I’ll make us something simple.”

Both salespeople go to waste, but Will has a better idea of what he’ll be giving Hannibal for Christmas.


	14. Day 14: Secret Santa

Will is happy that he’s learned to read all of Hannibal’s seemingly emotionless faces if for no other reason than it allows him to delight in Hannibal’s grumpiness now. Unlike the ugly sweater party, Hannibal had looked forward to St. Andrew’s Secret Santa exchange. He even wore the green sweater Will had given him–it had become Hannibal’s immediate favorite, as Will had expected. Along with Will’s own sensible red Christmas sweater, they appeared a perfectly festive pair. **  
**

And then Hannibal opened his gift in front of a good portion of the congregation, and Will watched with glee as his mood plummeted and circled the drain.

“I think they’re cute,” Will says as they walk home. He knows that only makes it worse; Hannibal hates being considered cute or adorable or sweet. If Will knew who Hannibal’s Secret Santa had been, he would buy them lunch for a job well done.

Hannibal remains stone-faced. His charming mask dropped as soon as they left the church. “Hardly. They’re tacky.”

“You should wear them.”

“Never.”

“I insist.”

“I refuse.”

Will’s smile is so wide that his cheeks hurt and his teeth chill, exposed to the cold night air. “See? You’re being cute now. The socks are a wonderful complement.”

Hannibal mumbles something very likely profane, but he’s shifted into his mother tongue, so Will can’t be sure. They walk another block before Hannibal drifts back to English and says, “I don’t understand why I wasn’t given a practical present like yours. A great deal of thought was put into that gift.”

“Are you serious?” He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. You’re such a spoiled brat.”

“I have standards.”

“You’re persnickety.” Will links their arms, and Hannibal even grumbles about that, if his eyes are to be believed. “Look, it’s no secret that I love dogs and enjoy coffee. Buying me a bag of coffee that supports rescue dogs?” Will huffs a laugh. “That’s a no-brainer.”

“Nevertheless,” but Hannibal has no follow-up.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with them. No one’s going to see the bottoms of your socks but me.” Will bops the side of his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. “‘If you can read this, please bring me wine.’ That’s impetus for me to get you tipsy and take advantage of you.”

Hannibal’s walking slows. _Bingo,_ thinks Will.

“Perhaps I judged them too quickly,” Hannibal says, voice level, not betraying his burgeoning arousal. Will knows he is; Hannibal’s never been opposed to Will exercising any form of dominance whatsoever.

“Perhaps you did.”

“I ought to try them on when I get home to make sure they fit.”

Will smiles. “And we can try out the bag of Grounds & Hounds in the morning,” he says, “to make sure it’s appropriate for curing your hangover.”


	15. The Cinnamon Himmeli, part one (for Day 15: Star)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of a three-chapter mini fic within a fic. Think of it like nesting dolls. Sort of.

Of the many loves Lady Murasaki fostered in Hannibal, origami is, by far, his favorite. There’s a beauty to discovering richness in simplicity; the concept is one upon which Hannibal built both his life and livelihood.

Well. Deadlihood, he supposes.

Hannibal considered teaching Will in order to give the two of them another shared hobby. Will is a master of intricacy and delicacy, after all, skills he had honed when he taught himself how to tie flies for fishing. He is patient and steady-handed; it is a point of personal pride for Hannibal that Will picked up the scalpel so quickly, that his cuts are neat and efficient. Will would be perfect at folding complicated shapes from nearly nothing.

Except Will has no interest in folding paper. Negative interest, to be precise. He wouldn’t even sit down and try this morning, choosing to rush off upstairs instead. Hannibal had hoped that the contemporary miniature Santa design would appeal to Will’s fondness of the children at St. Andrew’s, and then Will had went on his unexpected Christmas rant earlier in the week.

If only Hannibal had a pattern for Ebeneezer Scrooge. He’s tempted to design and fold a Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come out of sheer spite.

Nevertheless, Hannibal still intends to spend the day folding and creasing and snipping pieces of brightly-colored paper. He has garlands of perfect stars to make and a veritable forest of tiny trees for the mantel. Time permitting, a centerpiece of paper poinsettias for the table, and maybe a wreath for the door, but that might be too ambitious, even for Hannibal.

They have yet to decorate the house or their lovely tree, at all, having chosen to make a tradition of doing so on the darkest day of the year, the Winter solstice. Christmas, itself, is both a variant on and theft of pagan customs. It seemed appropriate to Hannibal to choose the 21st, and Will readily agreed. Hannibal was delighted, immediately picturing them working side by side, creating art that was more readily accepted, that others would understand, that would be praised and admired instead of derided and disdained.

But Will had other ideas, locking himself in the guest room upstairs. He’d carried up a brand new broom, an arm full of craft supplies, and Hannibal’s entire glass jar of cinnamon sticks. Something about not being disturbed and needing some time alone was grumbled at him, but Hannibal pretended to ignore him, still miffed at being left alone with his paper.

 _Then again,_ thinks Hannibal, _this would be an ideal time to practice making Will’s gift._ Perhaps, this time, his hands won’t shake.


	16. The Cinnamon Himmeli, part two (for Day 16: Presents)

If Will ever finds whoever created Pinterest, he’s going to look up creative ways to murder them using their own app. There have to be boards he can follow, or at least pins. Unless, of course, the creators of Pinterest prevent such items, in which case Will can kill them twice. **  
**

The pattern for the octahedron made out of cinnamon sticks seemed simple enough. Will could use twine. He knew how to thread things, how to make secure knots. If Will could practically build a boat from the frame up and sail it successfully over the Atlantic, then he could make ornaments. Easy-peasy, liver-squeasy.

Except… _not._

Threading the twine through the sticks would have been simple for him six years ago. Will had thought that tying flies would be like riding a bicycle–taking some time off wouldn’t diminish the skill. But he hasn’t tied a fly since he was incarcerated. Hannibal had ruined it for him, taken away the peace it offered.

Will’s hands are made to kill now, and he is not the kind of killer Hannibal is. They are both artists, yes, but Hannibal is a Botticelli; Will is more of a Jackson Pollock. Hannibal had been over the damn moon when Will made a straight incision, but all Will could think about as he cut was how much better a jagged edge would luck, never mind the fact that he had practiced on an uncooked loin for _three goddamn hours_ before that hunt.

He’s never told Hannibal. The church decoration committee ladies thought the roast was delicious.

So, instead of a neat row of cinnamon stick triangles, arranged like a section of truss bridge, Will has…something. Hopefully, Hannibal enjoys modern art, because this is more of a sputnik design than anything else.

The straw himmeli have gone even worse. Will tried desperately to make a star; now, he’s trying to peel them off the antique desk. Hannibal’s going to pitch a fit, which means Will’s going to be wearing earplugs, because there’s going to be nothing but harpsichord piece composition for several days.

This whole endeavor is just a gift that keeps on giving.

Will sighs, bits of broom straw stuck to his fingertips, accidentally-crushed cinnamon sticks staining his palms. At least he has a back-up present.


	17. The Cinnamon Himmeli, part three (for Day 17: Reindeer)

Will finds Hannibal at the dining room table, exactly where he left him when he escaped upstairs to try his hand at crafting himmeli. He’d expected to find piles of gorgeous paper stars cascading from the table and into the floor; Hannibal had seemed most eager to make those. Although, the more Will considers it, Hannibal was anger to make them specifically with him. **  
**

_Shit,_ he thinks. _There’s no way I can tell him the guest bedroom looks like the aftermath of a hay bale party._

He’s especially loathe to now that he sees Hannibal sitting amid scattered balls of colorful crumpled paper. Instead of folding, Hannibal is cutting out what looks to be, “A black reindeer?”

Hannibal doesn’t turn his head. “Yes,” he confirms, setting down his work. With the scissors, Hannibal indicates an already completed piece. There’s an intricately-painted reindeer skeleton rendered in stark white.

“It’s beautiful,” says Will, reaching for it timidly. “May I?”

A curt nod, and nothing more.

Will picks it up carefully with his free hand; the paint shimmers in the lamplight. “Is this because of my visions of the stag?”

“It would seem I cannot escape thoughts of you even when I am angry.”

“At me?” Will asks quietly.

“You know I am.”

Will pulls out the chair beside Hannibal, half expecting him to childishly scoot away. He hesitates before placing his attempt at the cinnamon stick himmeli in front of him. Hannibal puts down his scissors and paper.

As he picks it up, he asks, “What’s this?”

“I thought–” Will stops, swallows. “It’s kind of embarrassing, now that I have to explain it.”

“Enlightenment would, however, be appreciated.”

“I wanted to make you something that would remind you of Christmases with Mischa, okay?” Hannibal is silent for an uncomfortably long time, so Will finally goes on. “I saw these Lithuanian straw ornaments on Pinterest–himmeli–and I thought it would be a nice addition to our tree, something that you’d never used in Baltimore. And then I saw a pin for himmeli made out of cinnamon sticks, and…”

“Please,” says Hannibal. There’s the slightest tremor to his voice. “Go on, Will.”

“When I was a little kid,” Will begins, “like five, maybe six, we made these cinnamon ornaments in my class to take home to our parents. It was like dough,” and he doesn’t know why, exactly, but Will makes a ball with his hands, fingertips to fingertips, palms arched. “Anyway, we rolled it out, and then used cookie cutters to make shapes.”

“And what did you make?”

Will ducks his head. “A bear. Teacher poked a hole in the top of his head and threaded a red ribbon through it, and then once they dried, we took them home.”

“Did you have a tree branch from which to hang it?” This would feel terribly similar to a psychiatry session if Hannibal didn’t sound so soft, so gentle.

“Dad hung it from a thumbtack next to the door. He left my stocking under it. Well,” says Will, “Santa did, but…you know. I knew better, even then.”

“A mixture of your memories and mine,” and Hannibal is holding it in both hands as though it’s something precious, a treasure to be kept safe. It embarrasses Will even more than explaining why it exists in the first place. “Will…”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to make ornaments with you,” Will explains. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

Hannibal sets it down with the utmost care, takes Will’s face in his hands, and kisses the breath out of him. His fingers press against Will’s cheeks as though Will’s head would float away if Hannibal weren’t holding onto it. Will can taste the mix of winter greens they had with their lunch, tangy-sweet pomegranates and mild cheese and walnuts. It had been a wonderful meal; it tastes better from Hannibal’s lips.

The kiss ends as suddenly as it began when it becomes evident that all they’re doing is smiling upon each other’s mouths. Hannibal pulls down Will’s head until he can kiss the top of his head.

“You are my joy,” he whispers into Will’s hair.

“You like it?” Will looks up hopefully.

“It is the most beautiful monstrosity,” and Hannibal _laughs,_ and it makes Will laugh, too. “But I will show you how to make himmeli, if you wish. And then we will make your cinnamon bears.” 

Will feels like a little boy all over again. If the sparkle in Hannibal’s eyes is credible evidence, he’s feeling similarly. “And then maybe I can cut out the reindeer? You’re a better painter.”

Hannibal nods enthusiastically–at least, enthusiastically for Hannibal. “And then we will fold so many stars that we will be forced to hang them from the ceiling.”

“We’ve always shared them.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, and he kisses Will’s forehead. It makes Will feel as treasured as the haphazard pile of twine-tied sticks beside them. “Yes, so we have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the adventure of the cinnamon himmeli.


	18. Day 18: Mistletoe

“I ran into Sra. Lombroso at the market the other day,” says Hannibal, passing Will another completed lawn dart.

“Oh, yeah?” Will spares him a glance as he lines up his shot. His form is far from perfect, but Hannibal makes no attempt to correct it. He’s noticed that about himself lately, that he has become more forgiving and less exacting when it comes to Will’s efforts.

“We ran into each other in front of the olive oil.”

“Not literally, I hope.”

Hannibal ignores him, continuing to wrap twine around the dart, fastening the sprig of mistletoe to the shaft. “She was there for the Peragineto, as was I, and there was but one bottle left.” Will finally throws the dart, hitting the target with a satisfying _fwoop._ “You’re improving.”

“Thank you.” He holds out his hand for the next dart, which Hannibal places carefully onto his palm.

“We chatted for a few minutes, as one does out of politeness–”

“I thought you liked the Lombrosos.”

“They are all quite charming. However,” explains Hannibal, “there are social conventions to be maintained in impromptu public meetings no matter one’s feelings about the person in question.”

“You’re so goddamn pretentious,” Will mutters, concentrating on the target.

“She eventually asked if I would be so kind as to let her purchase the bottle, as she wanted to use it for their Chanukah celebrations, and she wasn’t certain it would be back in stock before the 24th.”

Will straightens, finally looking over at Hannibal. “The Lombrosos are Jewish?”

“Sephardi,” says Hannibal, “to be precise.”

“And did you let her?”

“Of course.” Having finished the next dart, Hannibal attempts to tuck it behind Will’s ear, only for Will to chuckle and swat his hand away.

“I’m very proud of you,” Will tells him. “It must have been difficult, letting the olive oil escape like that.”

“She’s invited us to join them, actually.” Hannibal settles for resting the lawn dart on Will’s shoulder. “Whichever day or days we like. So, really, I still get to enjoy the oil.”

Will rolls his eyes and refocuses on the target. Having moved over much closer to Hannibal’s side, the dart makes a slight whistle in Hannibal’s ear as it takes flight. “Of course you accepted without asking my opinion first,” says Will. He shifts his shoulder, catching the new dart; it falls neatly into his waiting hand. “Did you see if that landed?”

“Into the woods.”

“Dammit.” As he aims his next throw, Will sighs. “You do realize that my only practical knowledge of the Jewish faith comes from Southern Baptist tent revivals and watching Mel Brooks films with Wally, right?”

“Then consider this an opportunity to learn,” says Hannibal. “After all, as I told Sra. Lombroso, both members of the Butcher household are ever eager to learn new customs and celebrations.” He selects another sprig of mistletoe from the bag, then pulls a fresh dart from the box. “Tonight, for instance.”

“Pretty sure the only one learning anything here is–” He tilts his head back as he thinks, bearing his throat to Hannibal while gesturing toward the target with his dart. “Hang on, remind me who it is.”

“He was the stranger who approached Ginny at the sledding hill,” and Will’s head snaps back into place. He pivots, then hurls his dart with an enraged shout. The man at the end of its trajectory jerks in his bonds as the dart lands, puncturing his frostbitten chest. Hannibal _hmms_ with pride, running a thumb down the length of Will’s jaw. “So exquisite and brutal and accurate in your anger.”

Will’s eyes close as he smiles. “Hands-on learning and proper motivation seems to be an effective approach.”

“And you an effective Loki,” says Hannibal, “a beautiful, chaotic god, striking your own Baldur with your own spears of mistletoe.”

“I think our myth will have a better ending than the Norse one, though.”

Hannibal looks back at their target and asks, “Why is that?”

Will’s teeth gleam in the moonlight reflected from the snow, mouth wide in a menacing grin. “This Baldur won’t be coming back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham, Protector of Toddlers, Slayer of Creepy Men, First of His Name


	19. Day 19: Stocking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! There was no time to write yesterday. <3

Never in any possible universe would Will Graham have expected the world’s foremost cannibalistic serial killer to be an absolutely perfect Santa Claus. Well, Saint Nicholas. Or else, Father Christmas. Will isn’t entirely sure what iteration they’re on at this point.

What he _does_ know is that his husband is sitting at the front of the sanctuary in a red suit. It’s not plaid or pinstriped or checked, but an uncharacteristically solid red.

“The color is called oxblood,” Hannibal told him before they left for the church, suit bag and hatbox in tow.

“Of course it is,” mumbled Will, grabbing his green scarf and wondering how good of a noose it might make.

Hannibal’s already had to reassure several of the older children that, yes, he really _is_ Father Christmas, even if his suit is made of tweed. “The reindeer disliked the fur,” said Hannibal, “and the elves think this is more modern.” It was apparently an acceptable answer, though there had also been some dispute about the hat, and why it didn’t look right, either. “I can’t possibly look like all of the other Father Christmases you see out and about,” Hannibal explained. “How would you know I was the real one?” That, too, had proven satisfactory.

Will’s almost prepared to believe that Santa wears a bowler, himself.

Once the children had finished grilling Father Christmas about his appearance–and commenting that, if nothing else, he at least hadn’t forgotten how to wear his whiskers–Hannibal had read them a story. He’d threatened to read some tale about the Krampus, and Will still isn’t sure if he was joking or not, but Hannibal had wound up with the vicar’s well-loved copy of “T'was the Night before Christmas”.

Afterward, each child had taken a turn sitting on Hannibal’s lap, at which point there were very frank discussions about what it meant to be Good and not Bad. Will is fairly fucking certain that Father Christmas isn’t supposed to quote Nietzsche, but it’s strangely charming to watch Dapper Santa engage in eschatological debate with preschoolers. Eventually, they would get around to discussing the child’s Christmas list, and Hannibal would remind them to behave themselves, “according to your inner moral compass.” He handed them a little stocking and then sent them on their way before they could ask him to explain what he meant.

To Will’s surprise, the vicar asked Hannibal to take over the job indefinitely. He’s honestly concerned as to the quality of previous Santas of St. Andrew’s Anglican.

“I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Will says, digging around in an extra stocking for a peppermint stick as Hannibal changes in the church office. “You not only got to warp impressionable young minds this year, but for the next however long you like.”

“That is not why I accepted,” says Hannibal, unfastening a set of cufflinks Will’s pretty sure he bought purposefully for the occasion.

“Oh, that’s right, you get to annoy me every Christmas, to boot.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I’m afraid you have missed the point entirely.”

Will puts his stocking under his arm and unwraps a chocolate bell, instead. “And what would that be?” he asks. “Because, as far as I can tell, you only took on playing Santa because I told you how much I was against it.”

“Do you know why we lie about Santa Claus, Will?”

He chews the milk chocolate thoughtfully. It’s not even _close_ to being as good as the homemade candy Hannibal made. “Because adults underestimate the intelligence of their children and corporations play on the fear aforementioned adults have of not being good parents?”

Hannibal looks at him fondly in the mirror. “No.”

“Then why?”

He turns to face Will, clasping his shoulders, still wearing his long white beard and small wire spectacles. “Because you have to believe the little lies before you can believe the larger ones.”

Will blinks. “Such as?”

“The possibility for a time without war,” he begins. “The concept of a greater good. The existence of a fully-benevolent higher power. That there are reasons for pain and poverty, injustice and intolerance. Children must learn how to believe in things of little consequence so that they can accept those of great necessity.”

“Otherwise…?”

“What is a world without hope?”

Will’s quiet for the rest of the time it takes Hannibal to change. He’s quiet on the walk home. He’s quiet as they get ready for bed. Only when he crawls into bed next to Hannibal does he say, “You’re a very good Father Christmas.”

Hannibal smiles, but doesn’t turn away from his book. “There is a secret to playing any part. One must only find the meaning of and importance behind the role.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I'm still wrestling with my Santa Claus feels? It's not too obvious, is it?


	20. Day 20: Carols

“No.” It’s the third time Will’s said that now. Not even helping Hannibal roll out miniature pretzels has been enough to distract Will into saying yes. Hannibal hopes he’ll change his mind while they’re dipping them in chocolate later, but he certainly isn’t going to hold his breath. **  
**

“You have an excellent voice,” says Hannibal.

Will accidentally smashes a half-formed pretzel. “I–no, I don–when have you even heard me sing?”

“When you weren’t aware that I was listening, of course.”

“Great,” Will says. “Now I get to be paranoid of hidden cameras and microphones all over the house.”

Hannibal glances over at him. “Why are you so loathe for me to hear you?”

“I just am, okay?” Will sighs as he wipes his brow with the back of his arm; it leaves a streak of white flour across his forehead, a kitchen anointing. “Leave it alone. I’m not going caroling.”

“It would please me greatly if you did.”

“And it would please _me_ greatly if I didn’t.” Will begins rerolling his tiny pretzel. “I’m letting you bring Team Carol into the house after you all annoy the neighbors and surrounding area. Even making wassail, because, for some goddamn reason, I love you. But I draw the line at making preparations beforehand and coming along on your glee club from Hell.”

Hannibal sets another finished pretzel on the silicone baking mat. “Would you at least consider singing for me later?”

“Are you going to eat my vocal cords if I don’t?”

“Nonsense,” says Hannibal. “That would hardly be worth the effort.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you improbable.”

Will sighs. “What’s in it for me if I play sing-along with the harpsichord?”

“What would you like?” Hannibal pauses arranging the newest pretzel. “No one’s ever sung especially for me. It would mean a great deal to hear you on purpose and with your consent.”

“Fine.” Will turns around, back to the counter so he can look Hannibal in the eye. He crosses his arms over his chest; the dough is going to be difficult for Hannibal to scrub out of it later, and maybe that is also part of this bargain. “I want to bend you over this counter,” says Will, “right there where you’re standing. I want to do this unexpectedly, right before you’re due to take something out of the oven. And then you will stand there, and I will take you as roughly or as slowly as I like, and you will take it while watching your food burn.”

Hannibal shudders, partly from disgust at the proposal, partly from sudden, intense, burning arousal. The pretzel in Hannibal’s hand dies a worthy death, crushed in his fist.

“Breathe, Hannibal,” says Will, chuckling. He rubs the palm of his hand between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. “Don’t die and deprive me of the pleasure of killing you.”

“Never, love,” Hannibal promises, closing his eyes to control himself. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the mating rituals of serial killers...


	21. Day 21: Christmas Tree

“I have a confession to make,” says Hannibal. He sounds too serious for the way he looks, Will thinks. A garland of paper stars is wrapped carefully around Hannibal like a fragile bandoleer; delicate straw himmeli hang from individual ribbon loops, layered on his wrists and arms like bracelets.

Will sets down the tray of cinnamon bears on the back of the sofa, moving to slowly unladen Hannibal. “Which is?”

“I have never decorated a Christmas tree. At least, not as an adult,” he clarifies.

Will frowns. “But there were trees in your house.”

“Professionally-handled.”

“Here, just turn clockwise; it’ll be easier to unwind you that way.” Hannibal does, and then Will begins to unspool him like a reel, though it soon occurs to him that he doesn’t know where to put the unfurled strand of stars. “For the record,” he says, praying Hannibal doesn’t see him letting the garland pile on the floor, “neither have I.”

“Are you not on the decoration committee, Will?” Hannibal asks. His voice has the same bored tone Will’s learned to associate with incredulity. “Have you learned nothing from your betters?”

“I’ve learned that bunions are terrible and to never wear high heels.”

Hannibal smirks. “What a pity.” Before Will can react, Hannibal asks, “Did Molly and Walter not put up a tree?”

“They did. I didn’t.”

Hannibal stays Will’s hand. “Why not?”

“Not sure,” says Will, shrugging. “Didn’t feel right, I guess. But I always felt like I was intruding somehow–like we were each other’s replacements. A house of second-strings.” He pauses, both in speech and in untangling Hannibal. “Shit, I think we’re supposed to put lights on this first.”

“We always used candles when I was a boy.”

“…Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“I neglected to purchase a strand of lights,” Hannibal tells him. “Did you cast our garland haphazardly on the floor?”

“No,” Will replies, “I formed them into a very careful pile.” He begins to divest Hannibal of his origami again. “Seriously though. What do we do now?”

“I could check Pinterest,” says Hannibal. “However, I cannot be held accountable for what occurs should I encounter the word ‘rustic’ again.”

“It’s not too late to turn this into a Yule log.”

Hannibal narrows his eyes. “We are not burning our first Christmas tree.”

“It would certainly be a memorable experience,” Will continues, grinning as Hannibal scowls.

“Will.”

“Don’t worry,” says Will. “I won’t burn our first Christmas tree. Besides, I think we can figure out how to trim this damn thing. And, if need be, we can just trim the harpsichord, instead.”

Hannibal keeps glaring. “I hardly think that will be necessary.”

“Or we could go out later and walk through the charity set-up down at the park and take notes,” Will suggests. “Maybe buy some lights afterward, once we have an idea of what to do and how many strands we might need.”

“And decorate the tree tomorrow?”

“While I make you watch Christmas movies, yeah.”

Hannibal looks woefully at the tablet on the coffee table. “I had hoped you’d forgotten.”

“It’ll be a good distraction,” says Will. “We can even make up tree-trimming and film - watching snacks tonight.”

That cheers Hannibal up a little. “And what are we to do until the trees are lit up at dusk?”

“I thought maybe I’d keep undecorating you and see what happens,” Will says, smiling coyly.

Hannibal looks at him fondly. “Insatiable boy.”

They make it to the park that evening, walking through the man-made forest arm in arm, admiring all of the beautiful trees. Hannibal stop their stroll now and again to sketch plans, paper lit only by the twinkling lights festooned over branches and hung in strands overhead. The display is nice enough, and Hannibal is content, lost in concepts and thought.

As for Will, he much prefers to think of their bare tree back home and the time they spent together bare beneath it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Docs ate half of this before I had a chance to post. I am still salty about it.


	22. Day 22: Holiday Music/Movies

Hannibal and Will have spent the morning decorating their Nordmann fir, bolstered by strong coffee and spiced pear scones and Swedish cinnamon buns. They took turns taking bites and hanging ornaments–at least, they did until Will fumbled and dropped a scone. He claimed there was something ridiculous called a “five-second rule” and Hannibal adamantly refused to let Will eat a pastry that had touched the floor, and then Will had become unreasonably angry and stomped off upstairs. **  
**

Will has always been grumpy and rude, but Hannibal has noticed that the holidays seem to bring out Will’s suppressed inner grouch. Worse still, Hannibal can’t figure out _why._ It’s a perfunctory celebration for the majority of those who mark the occasion. He’s done his best to elevate that for Will, to give him a proper Christmas experience. There’s no reason for Will to be so touchy.

Regardless of Will’s mood, Hannibal is loathe to finish decorating the tree himself. There wasn’t much left to do, but the cinnamon bears were Will’s idea, and Hannibal doesn’t know where to put them. Between the haphazardly-constructed geometric straw himmeli and the expertly-folded origami stars, the tree appears both crude and elegant at the same time.

It is perfect and beautiful, yes, but Hannibal would prefer the tree to remain a joint effort, so the bears stay on their pan, watching the white bulbs twinkle through green needles.

Will eventually wanders back downstairs, tablet in hand. “We’re going to watch Christmas movies,” he says, “and then we’ll finish the tree.” He doesn’t wait for Hannibal to answer, just plops himself down next to him on the sofa.

“What are we watching?” asks Hannibal, letting Will burrow under his arm and into his side.

 _“Santa Claus Conquers the Martians,”_ Will replies, “followed by _Hogfather,_ followed by _Die Hard.”_

“A curious line-up.”

Will says, nearly mumbling, “It’s the same one Wally and I used.”

And how _stupid_ Hannibal feels now; the reason for Will’s temperament is so simple. “You miss them,” says Hannibal, pulling Will tighter to him, wishing–and not for the first time–that he had made wiser choices along their way to this easy domesticity, along their way to home.

“Yes.”

“You miss having an accessible family.”

“You’re my family,” Will says before kissing the side of Hannibal’s neck.

But Hannibal sighs, closing his eyes. “No, Will. I’m only yours.”

Will shifts himself on the sofa to climb into Hannibal’s lap; where he sets the tablet, Hannibal doesn’t know. “That’s enough– _you_ are enough,” Will assures him. “You’ve had years to come to terms with the loss of your own family, and you miss Mischa even still. Last Christmas, we were both trying not to die; I didn’t have time to grieve.” He kisses Hannibal, soft and small. “This isn’t about you, Hannibal. Allow me this one weakness.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if you could refrain from being intolerable,” Hannibal concedes, and Will kisses him again, grinning. “I may forgive you completely if you don’t force terrible cinema on me.”

“Nope. You have to suffer through _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians_ like the rest of us. Just be glad I’m not making you watch the Star Wars holiday special.”

“Truly, you are a saint among men.”

“We can watch _Hogfather_ first, though, if you’d like,” Will offers, and Hannibal supposes he can live with that.

Will soon discovers that Hannibal has not only read the book, but stole his reasoning for the need for Santa Claus from its pages–”Goddammit, I _knew_ that sounded familiar!” he says, and huffs his way to the kitchen for the leftover shortbread cookies Hannibal baked Sunday afternoon. Hannibal follows, smiling widely, happy to be the sole source of Will’s frustration and irritation once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't watched _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians_ , you need to fix that immediately. The MST3K version is fine; I don't want you to hurt yourself. Will is much crueler than I.
> 
> You should also watch _Hogfather_ , and also read _Hogfather_. _Die Hard_ is good, but not a holiday requirement.
> 
> Have fun! :D


	23. Day 23: Candy Cane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no actual candy canes in this chapter, but there _are_ peppermint sticks. That counts, right?

Looking back on it, Will probably shouldn’t have been surprised by Hannibal’s enthusiasm for learning about his childhood in the Deep South. He remembers how, in some of their earliest therapy sessions, the twang Will had spent most of his life training out of his voice would emerge when he spoke of his time in New Orleans and of growing up along the Mississippi. It embarrassed Will to no end; at the time, he’d thought that the strange look Hannibal gave him was judgmental. **  
**

Now that they’ve been living together for so many months, Will knows better. Hannibal is fascinated by cultures beyond the careful one he’d crafted for himself. Languages, customs, philosophies–Hannibal wants to learn it all. Sometimes, Will feels like Hannibal’s personal _National Geographic_ special.

He has used this to his advantage on more than one occasion, of course; maybe that’s why he’s bringing Hannibal home a brown paper Christmas sack. It’s easy for Will to manipulate himself by telling his own brain that the endeavor is, in turn, yet another manipulation. The allure of another piece of Will’s memory will snare Hannibal immediately. Yes, Will’s beyond certain he can turn this into a favor for himself.

What scares Will is that he’s not sure he wants to. He’s of the firm belief that nothing they’ve done for each other has ever been truly altruistic; they enjoy annoying the other too much for that, relish taking the upper hand. Even the cinnamon himmeli Will tried to make were a blatant attempt to…an attempt to…

Christ, what _had_ he been aiming to get out of it? He’d been angling for something, hadn’t he? Hannibal’s actual Christmas present had been a way of winning…another thing that Will can’t currently recall that simply _must_ exist.

Either that, or the balance between hate and love that defines their relationship is beginning to favor one side more than the other.

Will shakes the snow out of his hair and the discomfiting realization from his brain as he walks through the front door. He’ll figure out what to get out of giving Hannibal the Christmas sack in the kitchen. For now, Will can just leave on his coat and scarf and shoes to irritate his not-quite-husband.

He plops the brown paper bag down next to Hannibal’s mixing bowl. “Royal icing?”

“Hello to you, as well,” Hannibal says. “And yes. I’m practicing.”

“For?”

“I’ve never made transfers before.” When Will says nothing, he explains, “Premade decorations. I thought it might be better for the sake of consistency.” Will keeps saying nothing, merely nudges the paper bag to make it rustle. “What is this?”

“This,” says Will, moving the mixing bowl much to Hannibal’s dismay, “is a Christmas sack.”

Hannibal blinks. “It looks remarkably like a brown paper bag.”

“Open it.” So Hannibal does, reaches in and pulls out an orange, an apple, and several sticks of soft peppermint. The assortment of unshelled nuts he leaves within. “We got these after Christmas service. Well, when Dad and I stayed in one place long enough to have a Christmas service to go to.”

Hannibal meets Will’s eyes; the odd mix of awe and confusion he gets when Will lets his accent run free is present and accounted for. “A strictly southern tradition?”

Will shrugs. “I’m honestly not sure, but it was in every Southern Baptist church we wound up at. There would’ve been some rock candy in there, too, but I couldn’t find any ‘round here.”

“Why these specific items?”

“Don’t know that, neither. It just is. I guess maybe poor kids didn’t get much fruit and even less candy?” More softly than he’d intended, Will adds, “Leastways, I know I didn’t.”

“Neither did I,” says Hannibal, and Will knows there are bound to be a few more after-dinner sweets than usual. He’s going to have to buy new pants at this rate. Maybe that’s a manipulative desire of Hannibal’s, as well–unless, of course, Hannibal is having trouble remembering what his goals are, just like Will.

That’s a very dangerous road to think down, though, so Will turns the brain cart around.

“Have you ever drank orange juice through a peppermint stick?” Hannibal shakes his head. Will hands him one of the sticks. “Okay,” he says, “bite the ends off of each side.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, Hannibal does. Will watches him lick the taste of peppermint off of his own lips, and now Will knows exactly what he’ll be doing once they’re done here. He’s never had the pleasure of kissing orange and peppermint from someone’s mouth.

“Hand me one of those knives,” says Will, and his voice sounds raspy. He swallows, then picks the orange up off the counter–”Just set it down there, please and thanks.”–and starts rolling it between the palms of his hands. Will makes the mistake of glancing up at Hannibal; he seems to be mesmerized as he chews on the peppermint. Once Will deems the orange sufficiently juiced, he picks up the knife and cuts an X on one side, slicing through the peel.

“I imagine the stick goes into the orange now.” Hannibal sounds distracted, and the foreignness of it sets Will’s teeth on edge.

“It does.” Will pulls the peppermint out of Hannibal’s fingers and pushes it down into the orange. “Now you’re gonna have to suck on it pretty hard at first, but–” and he takes the opportunity to wink at Hannibal, “–I hear you’re pretty good at that.” Before Hannibal really has a chance to react, Will goes on. “You know how when you make sugar candy the heat leaves all these little bubbles behind on the inside?”

“Of course.”

“Well when you suck on the peppermint, the orange juice works its way up inside real slow, and the acid starts to eat away at those hollow spots in the candy, and voilà!”

Hannibal accepts the orange from Will. “A straw,” he says, turning the orange in his hand. “Ingenious.”

Will watches Hannibal’s cheeks hollow as he begins to drink, and he feels very smart, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been the recipient of many a Christmas sack in my time. Thank you, Bible Belt, for giving me some nostalgic fodder to use in a story about two queer serial killers. Hashtag blessed.


	24. Day 24: Decorating/Decorations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Luckily, the holidays are still about a week from being over. :)

Will is glad that Hannibal knows better than to disturb him when he climbs up to the attic and through the small window. The roof is strictly Will’s domain, just as the basement is Hannibal’s. **  
**

“I, the risen demon,” Hannibal mused once, “and you, the fallen angel.”

“You’re reading Terry Pratchett again.”

Hannibal shrugged. “I could read it to you, instead, if you like.”

But that isn’t why Will has made his way to the roof this afternoon. He isn’t here to think of how Hannibal insists on doing all of the voices when he reads aloud, and how much it warms Will’s heart that he reads to him, at all. Another day, perhaps, when Will is ready to examine the evolving nature of their relationship more closely.

Today, Will is here to check on Hannibal’s Christmas present.

He had hesitated to leave it here in the cold and snow, nestled on the rooftop next to the chimney. In the end, Will reminded himself that the gift would soon spend all of its time outside, anyway. It began life outdoors, and grew outdoors, and would continue to grow outdoors. Someday, should the universe see fit, the gift will be joined by others like it.

Will perches on the slanted roof, feet planted against the shingles, and reaches for the gift. It’s difficult, avoiding the net of white lights Hannibal insisted they put up. Thankfully, although surprisingly, decorating the roof had been easier than decorating the bushes. That’s solidly Hannibal’s fault, however, Hannibal and his insistence on balance and order in all areas.

He idly wonders if the neighbors have seen him up here every day, crawling around strands of tiny light bulbs, holding the gift, brushing the snow off its arms, quenching its inevitable thirst with water from his favorite flask. Maybe, if they do, they simply smile fondly and chalk it up to, “that odd Ian Butcher.” It’s usually what happens.

The ribbon Will tied around the gift is creased from the endless number of times he’s tied it into a lopsided bow. Will keeps hoping that he can make improvements if he practices hard enough. So far, nothing.

Hannibal will appreciate the effort, though. If Will knows his husband, Hannibal will appreciate the gift–and the sentiment behind it–just as much, if not more.

“I’m not very good at manipulating him anymore,” Will admits to the gift. He’s found it to be a wonderful secret keeper. “It’s difficult to manipulate someone when you both want the same things.”

He watches the snowflakes cluster on the neighbor’s roof, the world around him comfortably silent. For a little while, Will feels like he’s back in Wolf Trap, though he can’t truly explain why. Maybe because his heart’s at ease here; maybe because the man who holds it is busy perfecting sufganiyot in the kitchen below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever could Will's mysterious gift be? (Hint: I know.)


	25. Day 25: Holiday Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an absolute blast writing this one. I am not Jewish, and learned everything about the Sephardi Chanukah on the internet, so if I got something wrong, please feel free to correct me! Always happy to learn. <3

The Lombroso family’s Chanukah dinner was a small and intimate affair. Having attended a handful of coworkers’ Chanukah gatherings during his residency, Hannibal had some idea of what to expect. Those celebrations had been of the Ashkenazi tradition, however; Sephardi customs were only slightly different, but it was enough of a difference to ignite Hannibal’s curiosity. **  
**

Will was enchanted, as well, though his fascination was much easier to see than Hannibal’s. Primarily, Will asked questions about the chanukiot–how old it was, what the decorations meant, why there were small oil lamps instead of individual candles, and so forth. Sr. Lombroso was happy to indulge him, and the children insisted on letting “Mister Ian” light the first light. It amused Hannibal, seeing Will interested in ritual, especially given his disinterest in the Anglican rites they regularly participated in at St. Andrew’s.

He wonders if, perhaps, Will’s mother was Jewish, if the transparent delight in Will’s eyes during the three brachah was a subconscious yearning, a kind of recollection stemming from an unknown genetic origin. It is a theory he must figure out how to test, to be sure.

Regardless, and as Hannibal had expected, his own focus was primarily on the food.

The sufganiyot he had prepared and brought to contribute were well-received, though the Lombrosos ate the Sephardic variant, buñuelos. They were, like the traditions, similar to each other, both being fried balls of dough, much like the doughnut holes Will was so fond of. But the buñuelos tasted of anise and sticky with honey, sweetened further by a sprinkling of powdered sugar.

Instead of a dinner, Sra. Lombroso created a spread of what Hannibal could only categorize as hor d'oeuvres. There were the familiar potato latkes, but also ones made entirely of leek; Hannibal was as fond of these kefkes as Will was of the buñuelos. He already has plans to elevate the briks a l’oeuf, using fresh tuna instead of canned and a lightly-cooked runny yolk as sauce rather than the separately-prepared sunny side up egg. The individual bites of lamb dressed with yogurt were equally delicious, and the olives were perfectly ripe, and Hannibal has never asked for recipes as long as he has lived.

They walk back home laden with leftovers–”We’ll have plenty more tomorrow,” Sra. Lombroso insisted, smiling broadly. Will has a small collection of gelt, as well as a dreidel. Hannibal has a handful of recipe cards written in both English and Ladino.

“No offense,” says Will, “but that was way better than any of your parties.”

Hannibal looks over at his husband–and when had that happened, referring to Will as his husband outside of their personas of Ian and Lukas Butcher?–taking in his ruddy cheeks and genuine grin. His eyes are the shade of frosted spruce, shining in the lamplight, twinkling.

He has never seen Will so happy. Hannibal’s heart has never swelled so greatly. He knew that he loved Will, but it never occurred to him until now how different that love was from what he felt for Mischa. This is not the bittersweet love of memory; this is absolute and all-encompassing adoration.

“I must confess,” Hannibal replies, nearly breathless, entirely overwhelmed, “that I agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very Happy Chanukah to those of you celebrating! :D


	26. Day 26: Snowman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve is disgustingly sweet in the Butcher household.

“Have we read _The Abominable Snowman_ yet?” Hannibal asks. **  
**

Will yawns and snuggles further into his pillow. He’s warm and comfortable, stomach still full from eating at the Lombroso’s. “I don’t think so. Check your Goodreads account,” he suggests. “You insist on reviewing everything once you’ve finished it.”

“Authors depend on reviews for their livelihood,” he explains, though it’s a lecture Will’s received before. “The more well-rated the book, the more likely others are to read it, as well.”

“Your reviews are more like…I don’t know, essays.” Will opens one eye and glances up at Hannibal. He’s wearing his reading glasses, scrolling through his tablet, concentrating intensely. The librarian look has always excited Will, sending his imagination tumbling down a path that can only be described as lewd. Now he’s sleepy _and_ aroused, lethargic _and_ lusting.

“I prefer to be thorough,” says Hannibal. “There is little point in completing a task if one does not complete it entirely.”

“I would’ve hated having you as a student.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow and meets Will’s gaze. “Would you have preferred having me as an instructor?”

Will adjusts himself in the bed again. “Let’s talk about that later,” he says. “Sometime when I’m not too tired to act on it.”

“If you like.” He returns to his tablet. “We don’t seem to have it in our library.”

“Well, it is a short story for kids, isn’t it?”

“I simply thought it appropriate given the weather.”

“So go ahead and buy it and read it to me,” says Will, closing his eyes once more. “Though I don’t promise to stay awake. You know Santa Claus won’t come if we don’t go to sleep.”

He hears Hannibal set down his tablet on the bedside table, and then the _click_ of his glasses against the screen. “I thought you didn’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“I do when it gets you to pass out with me,” and Hannibal huffs a laugh. He settles down into bed beside Will, stretching out his arm to pull Will in close. Will scoots down enough to be able to nestle his head beneath Hannibal’s chin. Maybe it’s childish, but Will spent the evening playing with kids, so he’s going to forgive himself.

A few minutes later, Hannibal quietly tells him, “Part of your gift has yet to arrive.”

Will kisses Hannibal’s sweater; his slightly chapped lips catch on the knit fabric. “That’s okay. You’re still making chocolate crepes for breakfast, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

Hannibal sighs into Will’s hair. “It should be here later. The courier was simply delayed.”

“Oh no. Is Chiyoh playing Mother Christmas?”

“…Perhaps.”

Will snorts. “Is that why you wanted to read about an abominable snowman?” he asks. “To prepare me for her visit?”

“Behave, Will,” chides Hannibal. “Otherwise, Miss Claus will not come.”

“That makes staying awake very, very tempting,” but Will yawns again, and Hannibal cards his fingers through his hair, and he can’t help but fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is such a responsible reader; he's also right. Authors depend on reviews and ratings. When you buy and/or read a book, treat it like you (hopefully) would a fic here on AO3 and leave a comment (review) and a rating (kudos). It helps out both writers and fellow readers!
> 
> Speaking of, I haven't read _[The Abominable Snowman](http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22838913-the-abominable-snowman)_ yet, either...


	27. Day 27: Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sweetest fix-it fic I will ever, ever write. <3

Will didn’t expect breakfast in bed, because Hannibal hates even the possibility of crumbs in the sheets. Still, he can’t help but be a little disappointed that he didn’t wake up on Christmas morning to a tray full of coffee and freshly-squeezed orange juice and chocolate crepes.

He takes his time washing up for breakfast, trimming his beard and brushing out his curls exactly the way Hannibal likes them. Will puts on Hannibal’s spare robe, because his eyes light up every time he sees Will in his clothes. It’s a possessive streak that excites both of them; Will was surprised, at first, how much he enjoyed feeling possessed, but now he caters to it.

Tiptoeing downstairs feels cliche, like a Hallmark commercial, or maybe one for Folgers, considering the smell coming from the kitchen. Surprisingly, the kitchen is empty. Will rounds the corner into the dining room, but Hannibal isn’t there, either. The table is set for four, however, chocolate crepes under a clear dome over each plate to stay hot, just like when the Butchers entertain their guests. Each crepe is piled with strawberries and creme, and the orange juice is in the glass pitcher, but there’s no coffee.

Will follows his nose, and rounds the corner into the sitting room. There, in front of the fire and in his favorite armchair, sits Hannibal with an uncharacteristically sheepish smile. On the couch is Chiyoh, relaxed but still stoic. Beside her, however…

“Molly.”

She grins at him, raising her cup of coffee with both hands in a facsimile of a toast. “Hello, Will.” And then, “Surprise?”

Will walks toward her slowly, still in a strange sort of disbelief. “Hannibal invited you?” He glances to Hannibal, who is staring intently into his own coffee.

“Yeah,” she says as Will kneels in front of her. “Wally went on a ski trip with some friends and their families for the holidays. And Chiyoh wasn’t going to be there, either–I have to admit, the concept of a quiet Christmas was more than enticing.” Molly laughs quietly, and Will has longed for her smile so, so much; he didn’t realize until this exact moment. “But I decided to come with her, instead.”

He’s choked up, close to tears, hands shaking. “I’ve missed you,” he tells her, voice nearly a whisper. “Am I allowed to say that?”

Molly sniffles, but keeps smiling. “I’ve missed you, too. Think we’re all happier this way, though, right?”

Will nods, feeling ashamed. There’s a lump in his throat, and all he can do is shuffle forward and lie his head on her knees. Molly’s cup clinks onto the saucer sitting on the side table, and her hand descends to his hair, and Will finally starts to cry.

He hears Hannibal before he feels him, holding him from behind, his own head on the back of Will’s shoulder, lips on Will’s cheek. Will opens his eyes enough to see Chiyoh lace her fingers with Molly’s free hand, squeezing, though she remains sitting straight-backed.

“You’re happy?” Will asks Molly. “You’re together?”

Molly laughs a little and keeps carding her hand through Will’s hair. “The jilted women found a lot in common.”

“Walter is happy that his mother no longer marries killers,” adds Chiyoh. Her voice is level, as always, but not unkind.

“Yeah, two for two on husbands and father figures…I think he’s more mad at me than he is at you, Will.”

His shoulders shake as he chuckles. “I didn’t know,” he says. “Guess you’ve got a type.”

“Guess so.”

Hannibal kisses Will’s cheek again, and a third time. “Shall we adjourn to breakfast?”

Will sighs, content, surrounded by love. “Let’s stay here a little longer.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal. “And Will?”

“Yeah?”

Hannibal smiles against his skin. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Chr–”

Two cold wet noses push against Will’s bare foot; Will sits up, looking down. Winston and Buster have joined the family cuddle, all licking tongues and wagging tails, and Will cries and cries and can’t stop laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! :D


	28. Day 28: Ice Skating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bittersweetness, because Chiyoh is best at that, really. <3

It’s a Christmas Day tradition in their little town to go skating at the pond, a fact they learned after service at St. Andrew’s this morning. Hannibal had been surprised that Molly and Chiyoh wanted to attend church with them after breakfast, never mind Molly’s enthusiasm for going ice skating, “As the weird little family we are.”

Then again, Christmas morning has been full of the unexpected. Hannibal certainly couldn’t have predicted that he would be holding the leashes of two dogs as he and Chiyoh watched their partners attempt to skate.

“You could have mentioned that you were bringing the pack favorites,” Hannibal grumbles at her. She stands as though she’s keeping watch instead of simply watching, hands behind her back, feet nearly at parade rest. Hannibal wonders if she feels uneasy, watching Molly skate hand in hand with her ex-husband, but he knows better than to ask.

Chiyoh scoffs; her eye roll is almost audible. “You’re a soft touch these days, Hannibal,” she says. “I knew you wouldn’t turn down our gift to Will.”

“Ah. So your present to _me_ is the knowledge that I will suffer willingly.”

She only smiles at the rink, not even deigning to turn and look at him.

After a while, as Will and Molly finally make it around the pond for the first time, laughing as they scrabble like fawns learning to walk, Hannibal asks, “How long have you been together? Has it been since you met?”

“No,” says Chiyoh, “though we did become friends. It happened after we wound up at the bluff this past September. Neither of us knew the other was coming, both there to mourn deaths that weren’t. Walter was with friends.” Chiyoh glances down at the dogs, but quickly looks back up. “It’s a constant for him these days.”

“First his father, and now his surrogate.”

“And neither ever to pay for their sins.”

Hannibal scratches behind Buster’s ears as he paws at Hannibal’s coat. “And both protected by his mother.” He sighs heavily, breath pooling and clouding in the air before his face before dissipating with the slight breeze. “A terrible burden.”

Chiyoh hums her agreement. “He has confided to me that he worries he will become a killer himself.”

“It is in his blood.”

“And his brain.”

There is nothing more to say, though plenty more to see. On their second pass, Ginny comes bounding over toward Will, only to spin out of control and land on her bottom. But she laughs instead of crying, then reaches her tiny hands up to him. Will looks over and calls out to her mother, and she nods her approval, so Will helps Ginny up. Molly takes one of her hands, and Will the other, and they all skate off haphazardly together.

“Do you worry?” asks Chiyoh. There’s a note of concern in her voice that Hannibal hasn’t heard since the trip back from Muskrat Farm.

“About?”

“Being left.”

He crouches to pet Winston; it’s more soothing that he thought it would be. “On occasion,” Hannibal confesses.

Chiyoh’s hand finds its way to his shoulder. “I do, too, sometimes.”

“We have both been abandoned before,” and Chiyoh’s hand grips him more tightly.

Will and Molly and Ginny make it to the opposite side; it seems that the Lombrosos skate on Christmas Day, as well. Sr. and Sra. Lombroso wave amiably at Hannibal and Chiyoh when Will points them out. Molly is introduced, and they shake hands with her, as well as Ginny, when she reaches her own hand out expectantly.

“Hannibal, do you–” She pauses, so Hannibal looks up at her, and she down at him. “Do you want a family?”

It seems Chiyoh aims to play confessor today. “I don’t know,” says Hannibal. “Will would, I believe. But it would be terribly unfair to a child.”

“Like it is to Walter.”

“Worse than Walter, but yes.”

He gazes across the ice. Perhaps Will feels Hannibal’s eyes rest upon him, because he turns. Will’s smile is infectious–Hannibal can’t help but return it, can’t prevent the mask from melting.

“Maybe when we’re older,” Hannibal tells her, “when the world has stopped looking for us.”

Chiyoh chuckles knowingly. “When you’re both ready to stop killing, you mean.”

“St. Andrew’s needs protecting. We provide a service.”

“Whatever helps you both to sleep at night, Hannibal.” She tugs on the ear flap of his hat. “Domesticity suits you, however. Both of you.”

Hannibal breathes deeply, letting the cold air fill his lungs. It warms more quickly than it used to, back in Baltimore, back in Lithuania. “Our life here is pleasant. Comfortable. Unlike anything I have ever known.”

As Will and Molly finish their circuit, Chiyoh says, “For the first time, so is mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a strange little family, the Lecter-Grahams...


	29. Day 29: Mittens/Gloves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chiyoh/Molly 5eva <3

Molly’s used to Chiyoh’s silence, but the quiet she’s maintained since the afternoon at the pond unnerves her. It takes the movement of mountains to rattle Molly–-although Dolarhyde had done a decent job of eroding that-–but there’s nothing to be worried about here at Hannibal and Will’s home.

She laughs to herself. _Classic Molly,_ she thinks, _feeling comfortable around killers._

It’s not as though she started life that way, but finding out her first husband had a deadly secret changed her. Molly wasn’t afraid of him; she’d had no reason to be. He loved her and Wally, and he targeted neither women nor toddlers, so that was that. She told him to keep it out of the house and not tell her anything else about it, in case he should be caught.

The only thing Molly had ever truly been scared of was the death of the people she loved, and she’s survived that already. Ostensibly, twice. There’s nothing that can sink Molly Foster Graham. Not anymore.

Chiyoh is strong as iron, too. They’re stronger together, the two of them. But there’s still something feather-soft inside of Chiyoh; she can still be hurt. And that’s what Molly worries about now–that the courteous monster Will has bound himself to has said something to upset her silvertongue.

As soon as Will and Hannibal excused themselves from the dinner table and to the kitchen-–”I need help with dessert,” Hannibal said in that falsely discreet way of his, and Molly thinks she’s seen it all now-–Chiyoh excused herself outside. Molly’s first instinct is to follow her, but she waits. Winston and Buster crowd around her legs, and Molly loves on them. She’ll miss them when she leaves, but they’ve missed Will more.

Eventually, once Hannibal and Will actually start making sounds in the kitchen that sound like they belong there, Molly gets up and goes for her coat. Underneath is a pair of gloves she didn’t put there, a beautiful charcoal-gray leather trimmed in silver fur. She takes them off the hook; there’s a note inside.

_For hands that repaired what I had carelessly broken,_ it reads, written in a steady script that looks more like a fancy font from Wally’s computer. Molly doesn’t put them on yet, simply holds them as she walks outside.

Chiyoh isn’t on the stoop, but instead stands in the short walk that leads up to the house, staring up at a moon half-covered in cloud. She’s dressed in a the heavy blue peacoat Molly bought her for Christmas, wearing the burgundy scarf Wally knit for her. Her hair is three-quarters of the way up, messy and beautiful and perfectly Chiyoh.

Molly loves her in a way she’s never loved anyone. She hasn’t decided exactly how yet; it’s difficult to pin down, having been in love twice and being a mother and feeling a love that isn’t either.

“It used to be the only light I read by,” says Chiyoh, turning her head to look at Molly. Her eyes are haunted, but no more than usual.

“The moon?”

Chiyoh nods, then returns to moon-gazing. “You received the same gloves.”

Molly chuckles as she walks over to join her. “Yeah. You get the same little note, silvertongue?”

_“For hands that broke what I had carelessly repaired.”_

“Huh. Mine was the other way ‘round.” Chiyoh says nothing, so Molly simply looks up at the moon with her. It’s not as bright as it is at home, shrouded in the same gloom that seems to stick to the very air here. Even so, the moon is beautiful, and the snow sparkles, and the cold isn’t. Molly wonders if Will and Hannibal do this, too, stand in silence and let the moon touch them back.

“You’ve been quiet since the pond,” Molly finally says.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Fine. Quieter.”

Chiyoh hooks her arm through Molly’s. “Hannibal and I talked about families. It left me…contemplative.”

Molly tips her head to rest against the side of Chiyoh’s; as always, Chiyoh meets her in the middle. “Does he want one?”

“He’s uncertain. Nevertheless, Hannibal feels as though he is depriving Will of a real chance at fatherhood.”

“That what’s got your gears turning double-time?”

Chiyoh turns her head in slightly. “I had never considered motherhood as even being a possibility for me.”

Molly’s hands finally get too cold to ignore her nice new gloves. “Did he change your mind?”

“No,” she replies. “He only made me think. Hannibal’s good at that.”

“You want to go think inside?” asks Molly. “Where it’s warm and there’s dessert? Assuming they’ve stopped making out long enough.”

Molly feels Chiyoh’s cheeks lift as she smiles. It’s a rare gesture, so Molly pulls away to see it for herself. Chiyoh smiles with her whole face, perfect and sweet and nothing like the way Chiyoh holds herself for the world, or even for Molly.

“I doubt they’ve stopped,” Chiyoh says, glancing at the window.

“Then maybe,” begins Molly, wrapping her newly-gloved fingers around the lapels of Chiyoh’s coat, “we ought to take a hint ourselves.”

Chiyoh stops smiling, but only because her lips are pressed to Molly’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Chiyoh  
> Nowhere near a tree  
> K-I-S-S-I-N-G


	30. Day 30: New Year's Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am smothering myself in fluff.

“I still haven’t given you your present,” Will reminds Hannibal. Honestly, Hannibal’s more concerned with Winston and Buster, both determined to cuddle with their master on the bed. If Hannibal were a less gracious host, he would make Chiyoh sleep outside in the snow. Then again, Molly would likely join her, and then Will would cause a fuss, and Hannibal would be left in the bed alone. Likely with the dogs.

It occurs to Hannibal that, in this new life of theirs, he will never win anything again. Right on the heels of _that_ realization is the sudden recognition of how much that doesn’t bother him.

Agape is a curious beast, indeed.

“Hannibal?”

“My apologies,” he says. “Your radical acceptance of my gift is enough, however.” More quietly, Hannibal adds, “As is your mere presence here, with me.”

Will leans across Buster–-who has insinuated himself between their pillows-–and kisses Hannibal’s cheek. He feels his face heat, and that is _beyond_ new and novel. “Thank you for that, by the way. I never expected to see her again, considering that even talking on the phone is so much of a danger.”

“I bear her no ill will,” admits Hannibal.

“You tried to have her and Wally killed.”

“Alright, perhaps I bore a _little_ ill will.” Hannibal gives up and begins to pet Buster. “She had possessed you long enough is all.”

Will laughs. “You’re ridiculous. Not to mention lucky that they survived.”

“I doubt anything could truly kill Molly.” He sighs as Winston climbs over Buster in an attempt to get Hannibal to pet him, as well. “I fear she is as immortal as Chiyoh.”

“They seem happy together,” says Will, lifting Winston and depositing in Hannibal’s lap, then pulling Buster into his own. He scoots over, side flush against Hannibal’s. “Come on, stop stalling. I want to give you your present.”

“You seem quite resolved to do so.”

“Entirely.”

Winston licks Hannibal’s hand. It’s strangely comforting, though Hannibal hadn’t known he needed comfort. “Shall I close my eyes?”

“If you don’t mind.” Will’s already getting out of bed; he nearly bounces out, and Hannibal’s heart aches with it. He isn’t sure how long he waits, but Hannibal hears the door open and close, and then footsteps up the stairs to the attic, and then and inexplicable noise on the roof.

_Please, Fate, don’t let him fall._

Either Fate was listening for once, or Will is more nimble than Hannibal thought. Whatever the reason, Will is soon back in the bedroom safe and sound, though his teeth are chattering loudly. Buster gets moved from off of Hannibal’s leg, and then Winston from his lap, and the door opens and closes once more. The bed dips slightly as Will climbs back on.

“Okay,” he says. “You can open your eyes.”

Hannibal does, and looks to Will’s hands. “A pine seedling?”

“Yeah. It’s–it’s a Scots pine.” He pauses, Hannibal assumes to collect his words, or perhaps he is inexplicably nervous, as if he has temporarily forgotten that Hannibal would adore anything Will allowed him. “You know the lady who lives down the bend?”

“Boannan?” The corners of Hannibal’s mouth lift. “The elderly woman who imagines herself a witch?”

Will nods, and even his smile is hesitant. “I wanted a tree that _meant_ something. It’s apparently the only tree in northern Europe to survive the Ice Age. She also swears that they house fairies that conjure up the particular winds that blow in a fresh future and banish the mistakes of the past,” and he averts his eyes, which Hannibal is no longer used to yet finds breathtaking.

“Do you agree with her?”

“It’s fanciful,” says Will, shrugging, “but I find very few things impossible anymore.”

He reaches out to take the small terracotta pot from Will. There’s a wrinkled ribbon tied around the lip, red and green and gold, the bow lopsided and charming. “I must agree with you,” he says.

“It’s just…you said you wanted to keep living here,” Will explains, “so I thought it might be nice to start a new tradition. Plant a tree every year–make it a resolution or something, I don’t know. But I’ve never been good at keeping those. Resolutions, I mean. I don’t know about trees.” Will begins to ramble, drumming his fingers against his thighs. “Anyway, we can turn our tiny excuse of a backyard into a forest, and forests need guardians, especially as they grow, so we’ll have to stay and take care of it.”

Hannibal is rarely struck speechless, but he has no words now. Nothing besides, “Thank you.”

Will’s frozen hands find their way to Hannibal’s face as he moves closer. “You big sap,” he says affectionately. “Don’t cry.”

“I believe that this gift will be the big sap in the end.”

Groaning, Will leans in to kiss him; his lips are cold and dry from being out in the snow. “You’re terrible.”

“I cannot deny it.” Hannibal turns away to put the little tree on the bedside table, then begins to strip Will of his damp pajamas.

“Never thought buying a tree would get me laid,” he says, chuckling.

“Not with company across the hall,” chides Hannibal, carelessly tossing the shirt into the floor. “But I cannot have you ill. We must warm you up.”

Will hums, sliding his hands underneath Hannibal’s own pajama shirt. “Shared body heat, huh?”

“Of course.”

“Whatever you prescribe, Dr. Lecter,” and Hannibal hopes the little Scots pine seedling doesn’t mind seeing its guardians nude and wrapped around each other, kissing and moving beneath the heavy blankets, staying warm in the oldest and most treasured of ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go!


	31. Day 31: Kiss at Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the conclusion...

They drive Molly and Chiyoh into the city and to the airport to see them off. It’s bittersweet, parting with Molly again, though Will is grateful that the circumstances are amiable and far less sudden this time. She promises to bring Wally next year, but Will can only smile with one side of his mouth. It hurts his heart more than it does the scar, because he knows Wally won’t come.

Chiyoh and Hannibal shake hands, though, and that’s amusing enough to make Will feel better. He and Chiyoh only nod at each other, but even that is more than Will expected.

The days leading up to New Year’s Eve are quiet. Their Scots pine sits on the counter in the kitchen, neither he nor Hannibal interested in trying to break the frozen ground in order to plant it now. They spend most of their time in the kitchen, as well; Hannibal’s become accustomed to constantly baking, and Will’s gotten used to eating everything Hannibal bakes. Sometimes Hannibal will come up behind Will and rub his stomach–he’s definitely put on weight this season.

“Maybe I should be terribly normal and resolve to diet and exercise more,” says Will.

Hannibal stills behind him, hand full of Will’s belly. “Please, don’t.”

They decorate more cookies than usual that night. Will thinks he ought to ask Hannibal what this new obsession with keeping him well-fed is, but never does. One night, he has a dream that Hannibal has moved into a gingerbread house and is fattening Will up for nefarious purposes.

Will drags them on a hunt the next morning. They take more meat than usual.

New Year’s Eve arrives. Hannibal opens a bottle of enormously expensive champagne–Will guesses that it costs too much, anyway; most of what Hannibal buys when Will isn’t watching tends to be extravagant, though Will is guilty of indulging the two of them on occasion. They sit in the study, watching the fire, getting tipsy on glasses full of sweet bubbles.

Eleven o’clock rolls around, and then eleven-thirty, and then a quarter to midnight. Will’s happy that they aren’t tuning in to watch some gaudy celebration, or even attending the special service at St. Andrew’s. It feels right for it to be just the two of them, two dogs, and a plate that is more crumbs now than hors d'oeuvres.

“I have something for you,” Hannibal says, face relaxed and open, painted with an easy smile.

Will grins. “If you made more fudge while I was at the shelter, I’m going to have to turn it down.”

“It isn’t fudge.” He clears his throat. “Though I did make more of it, yes.”

“Then what?”

Hannibal finishes the rest of his glass, then licks his lips. He hands the flute to Will before getting up and going over to the Christmas tree; Will’s glad they decided to leave it up through Epiphany. The twinkling lights are soothing, and it’s nice to see something they made together, considering they can’t afford to create tableaus.

“Close your eyes,” Hannibal tells him, so he does. Will holds out his hands, then remembers he’s holding two champagne flutes. They’re taken from him and set down on the side table, and then there’s something light and papery put into Will’s waiting palms.

He looks down, and Will doesn’t think he’s ever felt this overwhelmed this quickly, not since Bedelia said that Hannibal was in love with him. Will still hasn’t told Hannibal he knows; sometimes, he wondered if Hannibal, himself, had even realized.

Will won’t have to wonder anymore.

His fingers trace along the edges of the origami heart, remarkably delicate, impossibly beautiful. “Palermo,” he whispers.

Hannibal sits back down on the sofa, putting Will’s legs across his lap. “Yes.”

“Is your heart still broken?”

“No.” Hannibal’s fingers shake as he cards through what he can reach of Will’s hair. “Is yours?”

Will’s voice is stopped up beneath the lump in his throat, so he only shakes his head.

“There are words,” begins Hannibal, “that I find myself unable to say–that I _wish_ to say, but cannot. I believe they have yet to be invented, that they are impossible, existing elsewhere, but not here. Short of letting you carve into my chest and break my ribs and giving you what lies within to consume as you ought–as you _deserve,_ Will, for you do deserve it–this small token is the best I can do.”

“I understand,” Will says, and his voice is small and weak, just as he feels now.

“Will–”

“You know I love you, right?”

There is dead silence beside him.

Will reaches out and puts the heart down on the coffee table. He grasps Hannibal’s chin, and turns his face to Will’s; he’s pale, and blank, and damp-eyed and vulnerable and, “My God,” Will whispers. He’s just realized himself. “I love you.”

It’s a furious kiss, a mournful kiss, an ecstatic and fearful and hopeful kiss. They both cry, and there might be snot running down one of their faces, and it’s as awkward as any teenage first kiss could possibly be. And then they laugh into it, like nothing’s truly happened before now, a painless past, a pure one that could have never existed between them.

“I’ll never stop hurting you,” Hannibal admits. Their noses are still smashed together, and his voice sounds all wrong. “It is my nature, to hurt what I love.”

“I know,” says Will. “But it’s mine, too.”

“I imagine we will be the death of each other.”

Will has the absurd idea to rub their noses together, like Ginny had to him just a few weeks ago. Hannibal actually giggles, and Will wonders exactly how much champagne he’s had. “Probably,” he agrees. “I can’t imagine a better way to go, though.”

The grandfather clock in the hall begins to chime. Will pulls their faces apart long enough to wipe their faces with the sleeve of his at-home flannel shirt, and Hannibal doesn’t complain.

“I’ve never been kissed at midnight.”

“Seriously?” Hannibal shakes his head on the third _bong_ of the clock. “I guess it’s your lucky night.”

This kiss is much less messy than the previous one, lasting long enough for the bells at St. Andrew’s to begin ringing. The correct time has never mattered much to either of them, though; no reason to start paying heed to it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me on this holiday adventure! I've had so much fun writing these ficlets, and an even greater time creating their little world around the church of St. Andrew's. Maybe we'll revisit it sometime--who knows? I certainly don't.
> 
> All of my love to [apoptoses](http://archiveofourown.org/users/apoptoses/works) for running the month of prompts! I've never done a daily challenge fest before. I hope you do more in the future. <3
> 
> Best wishes for the new year. May 2017 suck less than 2016. :D

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/shiphitsthefan/ficseasons-eatings/) for this fic because, much like Will Graham, I am hopelessly addicted.
> 
> Additionally, all of these ficlets are [posted separately on tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/tagged/season's+eatings).
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3 [[comment policy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile)]


End file.
